I Do Not Love You
by De Fideli
Summary: "I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so I love you because I know no other way." Modern AU, [É/E]
1. Chapter 1

He doesn't love her.

No, in fact, Auguste Enjolras is at first annoyed at Eponine Thenardier. Her tardiness and the scattered nature of her brain, it reminds him of some of his more childish friends—one in particular comes to mind.

She rushes into the library, her long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail still apparently damp from a recent shower. In tow is the standard athlete's backpack with the school logo; on her sweatshirt, the words "Track & Field" accompany the university's name. He should have known that accepting the Teaching Assistant role in his final year of undergraduate studies would mean devoting the precious hours of his day to athletes who could barely make a grade for eligibility.

She plops down on the seat across from him, taking out her books without speaking a word. He refuses to put away the copy of Immanuel Kant's _The Science of Right _in her presence, perhaps hoping that the meeting would be short enough to where he could resume his work until the early hours of the morning.

"Hi," she says quietly, the corners of her lips forming a smile and revealing deep dimples on both cheeks. He wasn't there to think about how the first thing he noticed was how bright her eyes shown despite their dark hue—he had better things to do. "I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late, I just—my printer wasn't working and-," he would soon find out how much truth was behind her excuses, but for now he is simply annoyed.

"Nevermind it," he says flatly as he takes out the notes to the assignment she mentioned in her e-mail. He didn't need the notes, certainly not to explain something as rudimentary as Descartes' substance dualism.

"Okay," she replies, before continuing. "I'm Eponine, by the way."

"I know," he replies shortly, flipping through pages of his pristine handwriting. He supposed that did come off as rude, and if he wanted a tolerable semester, being nice to his students was most likely beneficial. He looks up at her, his electrifying blue eyes meeting her bright browns. "Enjolras." His mouth forms what looked to be a small smile, and for a moment, he almost appeared to possess some sort of emotion.

She does not read into his statuesque nature, but instead smiles. "Oh, you're one of those last name guys," she comments lightheartedly, before pulling out a few sheets of paper and sliding them across the table. He does not respond as his eyes meet the short paper that she had attempted to write.

He can tell that she understands it—she is knowledgeable in the concept of substance dualism. Her arguments, however, are handled poorly and soon, her draft is filled with red cursive along the margins and bright yellow highlights.

"How do I know that Descartes believes the mind and body to be in constant interaction with each other?" he asks her, once more scanning the second page of her essay.

Her eyes widen at the question, and her body tenses with uncertainty. She has the tendency to be overwhelmed with nerves when put on the spot. "I, uhh, he talked about it in the text," she replies. "With the comparison to the ship and the sailor." She realizes that she may come off as incoherent, but at this point, she does not know what to do to even salvage her first impression.

"I didn't ask how _you _know, Eponine," he points out. The command in his voice is so prominent that the way her name rolls off his tongue reminds her of her father, or her coach, or anyone who had asked so much of her before. "How do _I _know?"

She looked at him in confusion. "You're the teaching assistant, you had to have at least _read _Meditations."

"How do you know that?" he asks her, pressing on.

"Well," she begins. "There are some things that are just known without saying—like I know you had to have read _Meditations_. And I'm guessing every other stupid philosophy book out there."

He almost rolls her eyes at her attempt at logic. "I may have, but your reader may have not," he explained. "And it would be helpful if you at least quoted the example because your argument completely jumps around without it."

She does not need to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "If my reader hasn't read it, I doubt he'd be reading some college sophomore's trainwreck of an argumentative paper," she argues. She knows that her point is valid, yet she too is aware that her teaching assistant is right. Letting out a deep sigh, she makes a note to add the quotation before handing the paper back for more comments from him.

Just two semesters of the absolutely useless subject was all that she needed to fulfill her core requirement, anyway.

* * *

He receives her paper the next week, a day before the due date. He comes across it in the middle of the pile and takes the red pen from behind his ear as he scans through the page. He found the quotation—accompanied by others scattered around the paper. Her arguments are well-detailed—she had taken his advice and applied it to a larger scale, and he declared to himself that perhaps she was a quick learner.

What most impressed him, however, was the voice that she applied to what could potentially be an incredibly dull topic. He could almost hear the sarcasm and the almost-laughing sound of her voice that he had picked up on during their meeting.

And when he hands the paper back to her, without many red marks, he watches her from the podium of the recitation classroom as her already-bright eyes light up upon seeing an A-.

Of course he couldn't give her the A. He didn't _love _it.

More importantly, he didn't love her.

* * *

**I couldn't sleep without writing this, so I figured why not post it for people to maybe enjoy? The first chapter is short, but I wanted to portray its fleeting nature.**

**For now, reading and reviewing would be wonderful.**

**Much love, Rina (enjolrastic)**


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn't love her.

According to Philippe Grantaire, he doesn't have that capability—and while normally, he would criticize his childhood friend on the wrongness of his statements, he does not object to this one.

Louis Combeferre points out that his friend has, indeed, been with women. Contrary to popular belief, he has been with them in every sense. Not in a while, of course. Enjolras considered himself to be "nearly graduating" since sophomore year, and he ceased all forms of antics upon adopting that state of mind.

But Grantaire interjects—Enjolras has been with women, to the point of sleeping with them, but never has he loved a woman aside from his own mother. It is one of those rare occasions in which Grantaire wins a debate and he smirks in pride while Enjolras shoots him a look of irritation.

Perhaps they have time for such useless bantering, but he does not. Every moment of his is with a purpose; his senior thesis, for now, is that purpose. He flips through his handwritten notes before typing rapidly once more. "If we could move on from these frivolous topics, it'd be greatly appreciated," he mutters, though he knows what he says will have no effect on either friend. "Don't you two have work to do?" He does not look up while he asks, knowing that the answer will not be one he agrees with.

Grantaire scoffs. "That's funny, Enj," he replies, taking another sip of his Irish coffee. While it was most obvious that Grantaire did not have any desire to study, his late afternoon drinking was justified, as well, by the fact that he did not have any need to hit the books. Grantaire, for much of his life, placed second to Enjolras in every exam of every class—all except for physics. Enjolras put forth much more than the necessary effort, but he knew that his friend had always simply been smart. And Grantaire, of course, was fully aware as well.

Enjolras sighs, and Combeferre speaks up. "Well, glad you asked, actually," he replies, attracting the attention of his studious friend. "We have two prospectives meeting us here for the society."

"And you couldn't tell me this sooner so I could have at least scheduled it?" Enjolras replies with a hint of annoyance.

Combeferre finds no offense to the rearing of his abrasive head. "You'll live," he shrugs. "Not every second of your life has to abide by your schedule. Besides, you're already familiar with one of them. Remember Dorian Courfeyrac from back home?"

Enjolras scans his memory back to their boarding school upbringing. "Charles' younger brother?" he questions, disbelief in his voice. His memories of Courfeyrac were limited to his escapades with the women from the sister school.

"Yeah, him," Combeferre replies. "I know what you're thinking—but he has charisma, and he's a lot more intelligent than Charles." Enjolras looks out into the window, and Combeferre does not wait for a reply to continue. "The other one's Marius Pontmercy. His grandfather's in the senate and his parents both attended the school."

"Another rich young boy looking for a hobby?" Enjolras mutters, returning his attentions to his laptop.

"Don't be so quick to judge, Auguste," Combeferre scolds him with his loathed first name, as Grantaire chuckles at the usage. "Our seniors would have thought the same of us at first if they examined our family backgrounds." He speaks a valid point—Enjolras came from a long line of politicians and investment bankers, the perfect combination for a storm of greed. Combeferre did not possess as much wealth, but the name did hold its influence and he held the honor as the eldest child. Perhaps Grantaire was the oddity—his father rose to fame and wealth through pharmaceutical science, and his money was relatively new.

Before Enjolras could counter the accusation, the door swings open and two young men walk in, both in the characteristic daily attire of a university student—iron-pressed pastel oxford shirts and khakis. Combeferre signals them over, and both men approach them. Enjolras looks at Dorian Courfeyrac, his likeable countenance just as he vaguely remembered it. He gives him a small smile and a nod, before shaking his hand. "It's good to see you, Mr. Courfeyrac."

The other man meets him with the same enthusiasm. "Marius Pontmercy," he introduces himself, shaking both upperclassmen's hands. He does not come off as affluent, nor self-important. In fact, Enjolras could not deny the contagious warmth that the young man possesses. He and Courfeyrac do not have the same type of likability; Courfeyrac possesses humor and boldness, while Marius exudes with a general kindness.

Combeferre knows Enjolras is not opposed to either, and he smiles to himself.

After much discussion over the commitments of the society to its mission, Enjolras looks at the time on his watch. "I need to stop by my apartment before a dinner with my professor," he announces, picking his leather messenger bag up off the floor and packing up his belongings.

"I'm heading to the library, so I'll head out with you," Marius adds, looking for hints of permission from the senior. He merely nods, and they make their short goodbyes.

They step onto the cobblestone streets, neither man feeling the need to say anything. Marius looks at the skies appreciatively, while Enjolras keeps his gaze straight across. He intends on walking briskly, yet Marius' pace forces them at a happy medium between a powerwalk and a stroll. His thoughts are interrupted by the other man's exclamation. "Eponine!"

Enjolras immediately follows his gaze at the familiar name to see the slender girl greet his companion with a wide smile. "Marius!" She still carries the same backpack, but she does not look to be an athlete today. Instead, she wears an oversized flannel shirt and a pair of worn-out jeans, and he wonders where she is headed with the same backpack he observed yesterday. Her smile turns into one of confusion as her vision moves to focus on the man beside her friend. "Enjolras, right?"

He nods silently, and Marius looks at the both of them. "You know each other?" the younger man asks.

"He's my philosophy TA," she says the same time he says "She's my student." Despite the interference, Marius understands what both are trying to convey and nods in understanding.

"Where are you headed, 'Ponine?" he asks, and Enjolras almost raises an eyebrow at the nickname basis the two appear to be on. Though he understands the wrongness of judgment, he cannot help but notice that Eponine looks out of place next to the typical upper-class crowd that Marius embodied.

She holds up a brown paper bag. "Taking food to Gavroche," she replies. His curiosity tugs at him, wanting to know more about who Gavroche was and why he needed his food delivered to his doorstep. He remains silent, however, because he is fully aware he shouldn't concern himself with business that clearly is not his.

"Oh, okay, be safe," Marius warns her lightly. "And before I forget," he asks, reaching into his bag and pulling out a wrapped box. "This is for Cosette."

She smiles, but Enjolras notices the absence of the light in her eyes. He does not understand why he reads into it so well—or why he even cares, let alone feels sad for her. "Wow," she replies, taking the box and examining it. "You're really taking her birthday week seriously." She lets out a low whistle. "With your presents and her dad's, I might as well set up a Cosette birthday tree to set all the presents under."

He knows that she is envious—but he recognizes that it is not because of the materials. The realization dawns on him when she looks back at Marius and the happiness on his face forces a smile upon hers. She's in love with him.

Marius laughs at her teasing. "Just make sure it gets to her, alright?" he asks.

Eponine nods. "Anything for you, Pontmercy," she replies, grinning as she puts the gift away in her backpack's side pocket. She turns around, but looks back at Enjolras. "See you on Thursday." It does not even occur to him first that it was he who she spoke to, and when it does, her figure already shrinks as she takes steps away from the two. He misses her playful smile, but he assumes it must have been there from the tone of her voice.

But he tells himself it does not matter, because she is just another girl—no different from the rest. He looks back at Marius, who has already resumed walking, and realized that he still stands where the conversation took place.

He decides he doesn't particularly like some aspects of Marius, but he doesn't know why it bothers him so greatly.

Her unrequited love is irrational. Love, he has told himself many times before, is irrational.

It's not that he's incapable of it, he silently declares. It's that it would render him incapable of many other things.

Therefore, he doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: So since I couldn't get this chapter out of my head right after uploading the first one, here you have two updates in one day. I hate that I'm not pacing myself, really, especially since I have other projects—but I just couldn't resist. **

**This was an exposition chapter so nothing too exciting happened, sorry about that, but it needed to be done. I don't want you to have to assume things about the rest of Les Amis, so I took the time to think and write about them.**

**I'm really not sure if I should continue this—I have not written for the Les Miserables fandom yet, and I'm quite terrified. I'd love for you to tell me what you think—either by review, or by messaging me on tumblr (enjolrastic).**

**Thank you so much for reading so far. Much love, Rina.**


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't love her.

He particularly hates when others assure him he would end up loving something—most times, he didn't. "Just give it a try, grandpa," Grantaire would say about everything—ranging from the Titanic to absinthe to signing up for multivariable calculus. At any rate, the result is always a pissed off Enjolras.

"C'mon, Auguste," Grantaire prods his flatmate. "What better way to welcome our new members than to throw them a party? You'd love it."

"Grant, you're not going to convince him if you make it sound like a rager," Matthieu Bahorel laughs. "It'll just be us and a few drinks. They say alcohol's the best social lubricant."

Enjolras rolls his eyes, returning his attention to the Windsor knot on his necktie. "You're going to mess up the house, and I've got work to do. How many more terrible ideas can you produce, Grantaire, are you trying to outdo yourself?" he replies.

"You're the only one who thinks it's a bad idea," Grantaire laughs. "Besides, you appointed me to take care of social affairs and here I am doing it."

He lets out a sigh of regret at his earlier poor decisions, and looks up at Combeferre and Nicolas Joly, both grading papers on the breakfast table. Joly looks up, flustered at all the sudden attention on him and lets out a laugh. "Well, uh," he starts. "I mean, I haven't met the new members yet, so a party wouldn't be so bad."

Combeferre shrugs. "I'm not opposed," he replies.

Enjolras realizes his efforts are futile, yet he still looks to Jean Prouvaire who is seated on the chaise, a cup of chamomile tea in his hands. The youngest member of the society returns his look after contemplation. "It wouldn't be terrible," he replies. "We could all use some fraternity."

Grantaire grins victoriously, already dialing his phone. "Marius? This is Grantaire from the society. Oh you're in class? Okay, this is going to quick. We're having a gathering tonight at nine o'clock. Yes, I'll text you the address," he replies. "Cosette, what? Who's Cosette? Oh well bring her then. And her friends." He hangs up the phone in triumph, and Enjolras shoots his friend a disapproving glare before exiting the house.

* * *

Eponine fidgets in her seat, much to the dismay of the blonde maneuvering the curling iron in her locks. "It's not going to look good no matter how you fix it, Cosette," Eponine grumbles.

Cosette laughs lightheartedly. "You, Miss Thenardier, will be proven incorrect," she replies, running her fingers through the ends of the curls she created in satisfaction. She'd never had a sister, or even a friend, to do any of these cosmetic activities too and she intended on taking advantage of her roommate.

They had met in an introductory psychology class in their freshman year, only a few seats apart in the front of the lecture hall. It was when Eponine's absence was noticed that Cosette took it upon herself make a copy of her notes, approaching the athlete the day after she returned from a track meet. "I noticed you were gone, so here are yesterday's notes," she smiled, and Eponine raised an eyebrow unsure of the display of kindness.

They fell into what resembled a friendship, and Cosette asked nonchalantly one day, "Do you want to live with me next year?" Eponine weighed the benefits and costs, naturally. She knew Cosette's father, a travelling man, owned real estate around the country and already had an apartment for Cosette near campus. It trumped the prospect of Eponine moving in back home across town and taking the early morning commute to practice every day—she could not afford on-campus housing for another year. She knew it was smart for her to agree.

She finishes Eponine's make-up, and her roommate is grateful that Cosette preferred subtle touches. Of course she would, Eponine thinks to herself. Any designer cosmetic could not make her roommate look prettier than she already was. Cosette twirled in her pink lace dress before picking up a piece of jewelry on her dresser. Eponine could almost swear that she felt her heart sink, looking at the box beside it that she had delivered earlier in the week. Present #5 for Cosette's birthday week.

She walks up to the full-length mirror, smoothing out her own attire—the dress belonging to Cosette, of course. Eponine Thenardier does not frequent parties; parties do not fare well with the invisible.

* * *

Enjolras digs for the keys in his bag, hearing the low thumping of Grantaire's speakers from down the hallway. He loosens his tie before turning the key, knowing nothing about the sight will be appealing to his exhausted, stressed mind.

The door swings open, and he surveys the area, a sigh of relief escaping him after realizing the major furniture is still intact. The dim lights force a squint, and he almost can't make out the voices over what he presumes is Grantaire's electronic dance music playlist.

"Captain!" an inebriated Grantaire exclaims, and the rest of the boys turn to greet the other owner of the apartment. His childhood friend holds up a shot glass in celebration for his arrival and quickly downs what appears to be whiskey. He and Bahorel share the table of hard liquor, as a few other men sit on the leather couches and engage in jovial conversation. Marius, Enjolras observes, has his arm wrapped around a blonde-haired girl and he can only assume her to be the Cosette he speaks so frequently of. He supposes she is like he describes her, and to that he gives the man credit. Still, he cannot be bothered with all that Marius shares about his relationship, and tonight is no different.

Beer bottles litter just about every surface, and Enjolras can barely stand the overwhelming smell of tobacco as he strides towards the balcony doors to let the smell air out. He steps out into the chilly fall breeze and feels a vibration in his pocket, pulling out the phone to see his father's credentials on the screen. Sighing, he picks it up. "Yes, father?"

The low voice of Auguste Victoire Enjolras is on the other end. "Good to hear from you," his baritone voice displaying hints of humor. "You're expected at the board meeting in a few days, son." The younger Auguste's jaw clenches at the news, and his father takes the silence as a cue to continue."We're taking monumental steps and you know very well that graduation is nearing and your role is growing."

"I don't intend on taking any larger of a role in the company than I do now," Enjolras replies, coldness in his voice as he looks off into the skyline.

"Well, son," his father laughs, dismissing his son's serious tone. "When you're done playing with schoolboy politics, you need a back-up plan. You're lucky this door's been open for so long."

"Feel free to shut the door for me at any time," he shoots back.

The older Auguste lets out a chuckle. "See you on Monday, son," he replies, refusing to take his son's protests seriously.

Enjolras speaks over the sound of a dead phone line, cursing to himself as he hears the balcony doors click shut.

His gaze is met by a curious Eponine Thenardier, her hand gingerly running along the ledge of the balcony as her back turns away from him. The other holds out an open bottle of beer towards him, and he takes it with a nod of gratitude. Her dress hardly covers a portion of her back, forming a v-shape just before the small of her back. He sees a hint of what he believes to be a scar, but he does not ask—as she turns around, his eyes appear in an incredibly suggestive angle and he darts them quickly back to the skyline.

She does not notice, but continues to stare at him. "Nice place," she says almost inaudibly. "You're missing out on the party."

He does not look at her, but he lets out a low, humorless laugh. "I get enough of my intoxicated friends," he replies. He is about to ask her what she is doing, separated from the festivities—but he knows the answer to the question as he looks through the door at Marius and Cosette, laughing with each other.

"I guess I would trade that any day for angry phone calls," she replies, amused, and the comment draws his gaze to her. It is her turn to look away, and the wind blows her hair away from her neck, exposing her protruding collarbones. Her eyes meet his, and she gazes at him with intrigue. "It must be nice," she says. "Having a back-up plan, I mean."

He puts his hands in the pockets of his dress pants, leaning on the railing. "I'd like to think the only plans I have are those that I've made myself," he comments, and takes a swig of his beer.

She laughs. "You want too many things," she shakes her head lightly. "Maybe you should think about what you have first before you wish it away. You could do a lot with it, you know."

"Are you calling me ungrateful?" he asks, defensively.

"No, no," she insists, approaching him with one hand twisting a ring on the other. "I just… I'd hate to see you fight battles you don't need to." She's near enough to look up at him, and he's close enough to know she's on a light buzz—the rosiness of her cheeks give away her state. Still, she appears to be serious in her words, and he almost places a hand on her arm to have her explain more.

At his movement, it is reflex that she backs away and she stumbles backwards. Immediately, his hand swoops in on the small of her back and she steadies herself with his support, straightening herself up inches away from his own body. She bites her lip. "Sorry," she breathes, and he is wordless. She could almost swear there is an unmistakable kindness in his eyes—perhaps that was responsible for their electrifying nature.

He releases his hand from her back, and clears his throat as he steps away. She retreats back into the apartment and leaves him to the cold night wind.

He doesn't like that she assumes so much about him—he hates assumptions on his character.

Moreover, he doesn't like that she's correct, unlike many others.

He doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: I don't entirely know how I feel about this chapter, so please let me know what you think via review or on tumblr (enjolrastic). Their interactions are still short at this point, but trust me when I say that their paths will cross more often.**

**Much love, Rina.**


	4. Chapter 4

She doesn't love him.

No, love is too much trouble. She distances herself from him for the rest of the night and leaves him alone to his important thoughts.

She knows as much about him as the next person—it is hard not to know a few things about the great Auguste Enjolras. Her knowledge is not one out of interest, but of unwilling listening. She has walked by him a few times en route to the track with her teammates as they whisper loudly about the senior. It is all that she expects, from first glance—she knows he comes from privilege. Though he dresses simply and professionally, she recognizes the quality leather on his shoes and his bag. How could she not? She had been told to look for those things ever since she could remember. She watches the way he carries himself—he executes all of the formalities, his chin always raised with dignity.

But certain skills of Eponine allow her to sift through the superficial giveaways. She possessed a burdensome talent in her empathy of those around her. Within the five short minutes of introduction with the gentlemen, she could distinguish the cogs of the dynamics. The man they called Bahorel's laugh resonated louder than most of the others—and naturally, she knew his anger would in turn amplify when the opportunity revealed itself. As the youngest one, Jean Prouvaire, slunk back into a comfortable seat, she knew he had much to contemplate about. As for the man who immediately wrapped his arm around her waist from the moment of their acquaintance, the one who introduced himself as Grantaire, she knew no harm would come from him.

She was good at knowing people because it was a means of survival.

She leaves the party early—her morning workouts prevented her from doing much into the late hours of the night. A farewell is not necessary, as the men are too far gone. Grantaire and Bahorel's laughs die down into their fatigue, though Grantaire still jokingly thrusts his shoulders along to the loud music.

The rest of the boys occupy themselves with a card game, though they often interrupt to playfully insult each other with personal jests. She immediately notices the absence of her roommate and her best friend, though she does not need to think hard of where they retreated to.

She picks up her keys and leaves, much to the dismay of the one still following her with his eyes from the balcony.

* * *

The sun rises a little after Eponine awakes, and she takes off on the trail alone. The offseason leaves her fully responsible of her own improvements, and it is nothing new for Eponine—she preferred bettering herself on her own.

The rest of her day is spent at the library, going over her notes once more in an attempt to grasp difficult concepts. She quickly gets lost in the complicated arguments, and she hears his voice in her head: persistent and challenging, only asking her questions without ever sharing the answer. It does not help her understand the ontological argument, and she leaves after frustratedly shutting her notebook.

"'Ponine!" the familiar, cheery voice greets her, but a slight tone of discomfort accompanies it. She expects it to be a subject of Cosette—it always is—but she corrects herself upon turning around and seeing Courfeyrac beside Marius, looking more distraught than his friend.

"Hello fellas," she greets them, a hop in her step as she shoves her hands into the pocket of her sweatshirt.

"Hey Eponine," Courfeyrac returns the greeting, his lopsided grin accompanied by his unmistakable charisma. "Have you heard from Gavroche lately?"

She furrows her eyebrows, not expecting the question. She had taken him a bag of cookies from the cafeteria and picked up groceries along the way last week, but she'd otherwise hadn't the luxury of contact with her younger brother. "No, not since last week," she replies. "Haven't you been tutoring him?"

"Well, I mean, I was supposed to," he replies, scratching the back of his neck and looking down. "But he hasn't been showing up the past three times and I was wondering if you knew anything about it."

She assesses his words, concluding the strangeness of such an absence from Gavroche. He adored Courfeyrac—when he started the tutoring program paired up with the then-freshman Courfeyrac, Gavroche had gone on and on about the college kid that he got. The two shared an uncannily similar sense of humor, particularly in practical jokes. It was not until she came to Gavroche's school early to pick him up that she met Dorian Courfeyrac.

"_You didn't tell me you had a sister, Gav," Courfeyrac scolded him playfully in a loud, incredibly audible whisper, "and you didn't tell me she was hot either."_

_Gavroche's face contorted in disgust, "Eww, Eponine?" he exclaimed. "Those running chicken legs and that ugly face?" As his older sister approached, he covered his eyes. "Ahh! Don't let her take me away, Courfey!"_

_Eponine rolled her eyes, "You little—quit being so dramatic, we have to get home before dark," she replies, hoisting his backpack on the shoulder that hers was not around._

_Courfeyrac eyed the typical athlete backpack. "You're a runner at the university?"_

_Eponine nodded, giving the man a friendly smile. "I'm guessing you're one of those social justice guys."_

_Courfeyrac chuckled. "No, I was just looking for a friend for the year and got this good one," he lightly punched Gavroche on the shoulder, and the third grader mimicked the action at him. "Dorian Courfeyrac," he stuck out his hand. He pointed at another college student, trying to console a crying third grader. The college boy was hunched over a child-sized table, looking a little more than frustrated. "That's Marius Pontmercy."_

_She let out a soft laugh at the sight, as she approached the man. "Uhh, sir?" she asked. "You alright there?"_

"_Yes, yes of course," Marius replied, flustered over the chaos of his current situation. "I promise, I'm not really this terrible with kids," he laughs, and looks up at Eponine. She met the innocent, kind stare of his green eyes and she too laughed._

_She leaned down at the child, recognizing him to be Theodore Babet. Naturally, she was familiar with all of the children that inhabited their small, rundown apartment complexes. They were a nightmare to handle altogether, but each small child had unique quirks that she always found enjoyable to learn. "Oy, Teddy," she called to the crying boy. He sniffled, looking up. "What do you think you're doing crying?" she asked him, a stern yet endearing tone to her messages. "If someone did something wrong to you, honey, you let them know it's not acceptable." He nodded gently, and she smiled at him. "How do you think you're going to be a police officer like that?"_

_The boy straightened up and ceased crying, and tugged on Marius' pant leg. "I want to play catch," the third grader announced, and Marius laughed heartily, nodding._

_As Theodore skipped to the equipment bin, he looked at Eponine. "Thank you," he said simply, and she nodded. "You're really good at that."_

"_Anytime," she replied, before retreating back to fetch Gavroche. So while, on the walk home, all Gavroche could talk about was the new things he learned from Courfeyrac, she repeated the memory of Marius Pontmercy and his grateful smile and bright eyes._

"Courf, Gavroche loves spending afterschool with you," Eponine replied. "That's the only reason he goes to school. Why would he not be there?" She wracked her brain for possible reasons; worry immediately coursing through her veins. She fished for her phone in her backpack, digging out the primitive device and scrolling through her contacts.

Tapping her foot impatiently, she hoped that somehow, the low and even tone of her childhood friend's voice would interrupt the dial tone. "Hello, you have reached—" the words elicit an irritated groan as she hangs up the phone and shoves it in her back pocket. She should have thought better than to rely on someone else to be present—she most certainly knew better than that.

"Eponine," Marius quickly spoke up. "I know what you want to do and I don't think it's a good idea."

Eponine manages to throw her most serious glare. "Don't be stupid, Marius," she replies, dismissing any arguments he might care to put forth.

Marius puts his hands on both of her forearms. "'Ponine. If something did happen to your brother," he says sternly, looking her directly in the eyes. "Then you're not safe to go there on your own." He eyes his friend, standing beside him. "Courfeyrac will go with you." She can barely stifle rolling her eyes.

She lets out a humorless laugh. "Marius, really, it's fine. I grew up there," she dismisses his worries with her indignant reassurances. "Nothing says I'm looking for a death wish like bringing a bourgeois boy around."

Courfeyrac looks down at his attire, and realizes she has a point—he doubts his pastels would scare away any mugger. "I can go home and change, Ep," he offers, and she shakes her head adamantly, refusing any form of aid.

The two are about to resign to Eponine's will, when Marius catches sight of a familiar politics student holding a coffee, strangely at a leisurely pace. He paid no heed to anyone around and him and though it appeared he was in no rush, his visage still contorts to its naturally focused state. "Enjolras!" Marius calls, and Eponine huffs. She'd never believe his company to be so ill-timed.

They hadn't exchanged words since their encounter at his apartment, and his shoulders tensed at the sight of the slender girl. He breaks out of his thoughts and approaches them. "Gentlemen," he greets them, and engages in eye contact with Eponine. "Ms. Thenardier. What are we gathered here for?"

"Well, Eponine-," Courfeyrac begins.

"I was just about to leave," Eponine interjects, shooting a glare unappreciative of the direction the conversation was going.

"Are you going off-campus?" the older man asked, and she raised an eyebrow. She had not entirely expected Enjolras to be too concerned with her non-academic activities. "I'm on my way to a meeting with a nonprofit across the river, so if your destination happens to be in that direction, I have access to a vehicle."

"Perfect!" Marius explained with more enthusiasm than he had intended. "That's exactly where Eponine's going, actually." He dared not look at the brunette's subtle hints of infuriation.

"Alright then," he nods. "It's settled." Eponine opens her mouth to dispute the decision, but in a moment of practicality, she realizes beating the rush hour crowd is much more likely in a private vehicle than the public bus. If Gavroche were in trouble, her rage would be unleashed on the entire metropolitan commuter system. He does not hesitate to walk off as Eponine mutters complaints under her breath, crossing the front gates of the institution to see Enjolras' car parked in a small lot with the rest of what could pass off as a luxury dealership.

She assumes it wise not to expect an ostentatious sports car, and she confirms her beliefs in the black sedan. It is only when the blue and white logo of a luxury English automobile company is paid attention to that the perceived value of the car strikes Eponine. He unlocks the car and she gingerly tugs on the handle, as if the pricey piece of metal would break at rough contact. She slides into the leather passenger seats, immediately noticing the spotlessness of the vehicle. It surely did not appear that Enjolras had passengers often.

Once he gets into his own seat and the engine hums into life, she comments, "You take this across the river?" She wonders if he's had a few stolen parts here or there—she knows of many people who would gladly disassemble the machine if given the opportunity.

He replies, "My friend has a garage." A silence falls between them, before he continues. "I'd change the car if I could, but it's a little rude to get rid of a gift, I suppose."

She raises an eyebrow, almost smiling at the strangeness of his thoughts. "Why are you so ashamed of being rich?" she asks. "_I _personally don't think there's a problem with it, if that's any consolation."

"I'm not ashamed," he corrects her, though the matter-of-factly undertones she'd come to know are absent in his statement. "I just don't find it necessary to have a car that could very well pay for a year of someone's food and utility." She rolls her eyes, knowing she should have expected such an answer from the emperor of the student social justice center.

_You could totally pay for mine_, she thinks to herself, amused as a small grin appears on her face.

"Did I say something funny?" he questions, after glancing at her for less than a second.

"What? No. I was just—nevermind," she replies, defeatedly, desperate to change the subject. She looks at his console, to find probably the only thing giving away that the car had been ridden in before. "100 Love Sonnets by Pablo Neruda," she reads out loud.

His head turns quickly at the mention of the book's title. "What? Oh, that's Prouvaire's," he replies quickly.

She laughs to herself. "You sure?"

He scoffs. "I don't have the time to mull over the importance of companionship," he replies sardonically.

"Wow," Eponine replies in an exaggeratingly feigned intrigue. "That is _the _most romantic thing I've ever heard."

It takes Enjolras much more effort than he anticipated in order to stifle a laugh at her joke. Her delivery, he admitted, had been dead on. "Funny," he shoots back evenly. "Excuse me for preferring to spend my hours making people's lives better instead of buying a week's worth of presents for my significant other." She raises her eyebrow at the jab at her best friend. "What? You have to think that's slightly over the top."

She laughs, shaking her head. "Maybe a little bit." It takes her a moment to grasp the fact that she enjoyed interacting with the same borderline unapproachable man she had come to know. He exhibits traces of laugh lines running down his cheek, and she cannot decide if he looks better with intensity or warmth—instead, she decides that the two different auras belong to two entirely different people. "Marius is a great guy," she finds herself with the inclination to defend him, even though her driver's comments don't inflict much offense.

"I'm sure he has his heart in the right place," Enjolras mutters.

"Oh, we're talking about hearts now?" she jokes, and he shoots her a defensive glance. They do not pick up the conversation after that, spending the rest of the car ride in silence after Eponine fishes out a small paperback book from her backpack. She does not even dare to attempt to complete her philosophy reading beside him, in fear that he'll probe her with endless questions of the text. No, instead she sticks to her science class, a safe field that Enjolras dares not touch.

They soon cross the bridge into the poorer district's territory, apparent from the potholes that Enjolras skillfully maneuvers over and the familiar rundown buildings that Eponine has too many memories centered around. "Where is it that you want to go?" he asks her, and she finds herself searching for a safe answer. She can't have him going near, moreover knowing, where Eponine frequents visits when she leaves campus.

"The elementary school," she replies, knowing the walk won't be too far from there. He nods in understanding, having gone through the tutoring program that Courfeyrac and Marius currently partook in. He weaves the streets in a moderate pace to get to the beige, concrete building with the broken swings and the weed-infested basketball court. His car comes to a halt, and Eponine looks at him. "Thanks, I really appreciate it," she finds herself expressing genuinely, and he nods in return before she exits and shuts the door behind her.

She walks off in the direction of the building, and he checks his phone for emails before pressing on the gas. One text message appears on the interface.

_**Marius Pontmercy: **__Hey, make sure Eponine gets back to campus safely, okay? It gets really dangerous where she lives._

He frowns at the message and looks up to find her, but the girl has already disappeared past the corner and it comes to his attention that she most likely was not headed into the school.

* * *

Eponine walks up the creaky steps lightly, unwilling to draw attention to her own presence in the building. She gets to the top floor and taps on the door three times before turning the unlocked doorknob. She refused to recognize any rules of privacy with the apartment, and she peers through the entryway.

"Glad to see you're still taking advantage of your welcome," a low voice drawls out from the kitchen. Xavier Montparnasse is putting out a cigarette as he sits on a wooden chair, his back turned from the window that provided the only light in the room.

"Where's Gavroche?" she quickly demands. "Why haven't you told me he wasn't going to school? What happened, where is he?" The urgency and hostility are both present in her tone, and she looks at Montparnasse with unfailing determination to extract any useful knowledge.

He looks down, almost sheepishly, to his feet. "He's not here."

"What do you mean he's not here?" She approaches him, and slams her fists down the table. "Montparnasse, I swear to god, if you don't tell me where he is I will have this place busted faster than—"

"I don't know where he is," he interrupts, meeting her gaze with his same even tone. "He didn't come back from his afterschool shit the other day and I figured maybe you took him."

"'Parnasse, you know you're not a dumbass, you know I could never have him stay over," she replies, demanding more from him. "I know you know where he is."

"Your father took him," he replies, almost inaudibly, and she looks at him with a burning fury. He sighs, supposing that he might as well continue with what he had left. "I had no choice, Ep. You know that if there's one thing I told you I would do, I would stop the same shit that happened to you from happening to Gav." She remains silent, turning her back to him. "They needed him for some deliveries after their last guy disappeared."

She felt her knees grow the slightest bit weaker, but kept her hand on the table from support. Montparnasse did not need to see her in a state of vulnerability. Of course, they would take Gavroche—no one would suspect a child and his backpack to be toting cocaine around. She walked out of the apartment quickly and wordlessly, and the boy knew better than to stop her or try to apologize.

* * *

She looked at the menacing, grey building her parents resided in, and she could feel her stomach churn. Fearing would not ease the situation by any means, but she could not erase the thoughts elicited from the plain sight of her childhood home. Before she reaches the building, a voice intercepts her from the alley. "Nice to see my favorite child visit," the malicious tone of her father unmistakable to her at any day.

She turns to see him, her little brother standing in between the man and his friend Claquesous with a heartbreakingly frightened look on his face. She can only assume the Spider-Man backpack he carries contains his father's deliveries, and her jaw clenches in anger. "Let him go, you filthy piece of shit," she spits, and Gregoire Thenardier lets out a loud laugh.

"We're almost getting as much out of him as we did outta you, 'Ponnie," her father replies, gripping his youngest son by the shoulder.

"Don't touch him," she replies. "I'll pay for however much worth the shit in that bag is, leave Gavroche alone." She eyes Gavroche, and sees a glint of metal behind him attached to Claquesous' hand. "I will fucking go to the police and make sure you rot in hell if you touch him."

She knows her father is most likely inebriated at this time of the day, but the mention of the authorities is a serious one to him. "You know I can get out with my hands cuffed behind my back, dearest," he replies, though his tone is now even.

She hears the click of a gun from behind her, and her heart almost stops until she hears who it belongs to. "Let him go, Greg," the steely voice of Montparnasse coming from behind her. He does not look at Eponine, but she understands it to be his form of an apology. He had never possessed a skill with words, anyway. "I'm in a fuckin' perfect mood to kill someone tonight and it looks like you're in the right place at the right time."

Gavroche looks at Montparnasse in a combination of fear and awe—he knew the man he considered his brother was speaking true words, but he never knew heroes to be so villainous.

"Remember what I've done for you, son," Thenardier's voice is thick with warning. He, too, knows that Montparnasse does not joke around. He was heavily involved in the breeding of Montparnasse's murderous nature, but he had lost control of the man when a drug operation of theirs caused the death of his mother in his middle teenage years.

"It doesn't matter to me," Montparnasse looks at him defiantly, pointing the handgun at him. Realizing that he cannot win this conflict, Thenardier executes his exit the only way he knows how: by inflicting as much damage as possible. Claquesous runs at the armed man, crowbar in hand, while Thenardier grabs his daughter and slams her against the wall, pulling Gavroche away in an attempt to flee from the scene.

"'Ponine!" he cries, sticking out his other arm to grab his sister. She tries to recover from the collision and yanks her brother away from the man. A strong boot meets her stomach, and the impact forces her to let go for a moment.

A gunshot rings through the alleyway, and Thenardier curses in pain. Claquesous is lying unconscious on the ground, and Montparnasse points the handgun straight at his former mentor. The look alone forces Thenardier to let go of Gavroche in exchange for his life, still yelping in pain at the bullet lodged in his arm.

Police sirens ring in the distance, and Montparnasse curses as he kneels down at Eponine. "I have to go." He takes out a switchblade, handing it to Gavroche. "Use it when you need to." He pats the boy on the head to run off, knowing wanted criminals do not fare well.

Eponine feels a strong pain in her chest that almost keeps her from moving, and calls for Gavroche to bring her backpack. He obeys, and she takes out her phone to dial Marius' number. She knows well enough who they are going to send to come fetch her, and she cringes at the thought of him seeing her in this state.

She does not know why she has an inclination to protect his current impression of her—Marius has witnessed her in a similar state, and the only reason she felt ashamed was because of her interest in him.

Was she interested in Enjolras?

She is interested in protecting Gavroche, and making a better life for herself—she, perhaps, is the best person to understand Enjolras' repulsion towards love. Perhaps, because she is denied of even the simplest form of familial love.

She knows better than to expect love.

She doesn't love him.

**A/N: Whew, this was a long one, I'm so sorry for that. I was going to divide it in two but I couldn't stop, really. Please, please let me know what you think. Is it better at this length? Or do you absolutely hate it and want to chop it up into pieces and throw it in the grinder? **

**Also, find me on tumblr under "enjolrastic." Is there an incentive? Why yes, of course! Every one of my chapters is accompanied by a compilation of pictures to help you envision what I'm trying to convey, so you'll get that.**

**Plus, if you ever want me to reply to anything, tumblr is the best way to go. If not, consider reviewing!**

**Much love, Rina.**


	5. Chapter 5

She doesn't love him.

She especially doesn't love people who do her favors—particularly as obligations.

But at the present circumstances, she has no choice but to succumb to his help.

He arrived at the intersection that Courfeyrac had indicated, later than expected no thanks to his navigational system. Of all the features in the car, it seemed to be the one that the directionally challenged driver needed the most, yet he learned that occasionally, he found himself in unnecessary turns and detours.  
He parks by the curb and approaches the familiar girl sitting with her back leaned against the dirty alley wall, with a younger boy keeping her company. The two did not entire look similar, and had it not been for Courfeyrac's explanation, he would've thought the street urchin was merely robbing the apparently unconscious Eponine.  
Exiting his car, he approached the two slowly. The younger boy's head whipped in his direction. "Back off!" He yelled, bringing out the switchblade from his lap.  
The older boy threw his hands up in a display of pacifism, though he does not back away. "Are you Gavroche?" he asks.  
Narrowing his eyes, the child does not lower the blade. "What's it to ya?"  
Enjolras never understood how to communicate with children-he'd hardly ever been in contact with young ones, his only child status being responsible for his lack of experience. He figures that if he spoke diplomatically and utilized simple vernacular, it would suffice. "Courfeyrac sent me to fetch you," he explains in the most gentle manner he could muster up.  
At the sound of his tutor's name, Gavroche becomes visibly less guarded though the blade remained upright. "Where are you taking us?" He asks, a demanding tone in his question. Enjolras almost smiles at the similarity of the boy's tone to Eponine's, despite not knowing why he finds it so amusing.  
"His and Pontmercy's apartment, I'm guessing," he replies, a half-shrug. In truth, Courfeyrac had not specified what he intended on doing with the siblings, only stressing the importance of retrieving them. It is not in Enjolras' nature to not acquire every minuscule detail of an action he is asked to carry out, but he assumes the current situation worthy of an exception.  
He lays his eyes upon Eponine for the first time since his arrival, and he notices a bruise forming on her right cheekbone, as she appears to hold the lower rib area of her torso. Her eyes are shut, and if she did not look so recently battered, he would have called her peaceful.  
"Alright," Gavroche announces, putting down his switchblade. "Bring us there." He pauses, before looking at him. "Got a name?"  
He nods. "Enjolras."  
Gavroche furrows his eyebrows. "Awfully weird first name."  
"It's my last," he replies simply.  
"What's your first?" Gavroche presses on, with the same inquisitive nature he associates the unconscious girl with.  
"I don't use it," Enjolras replies, as he scoops the boy's sister up in the most tender way he finds possible. He begins to walk back to his car.  
"I don't use it Enjolras," Gavroche repeats, mimicking and exaggerating Enjolras' low, commanding voice. "That's a stupid name if I've ever heard one," he snorts.  
He rolls his eyes, knowing exactly why Courfeyrac and the child have such a brotherly relationship.

* * *

The moment her eyes flutter open, she feels as if the contours of every object in the world had disappeared into a blurry watercolor painting.  
"Oh thank god, she's not dead," she hears the familiar voice of Courfeyrac not far from where she is... which, at this point, she still doesn't know.  
"She wasn't near death at any point, we did everything Joly told us to," a stern voice replies. She does nothing to prevent a groan. Of course Enjolras would downplay her injuries.  
"Takes a little more than slamming into the wall to end this one," her younger brother replies proudly. She squints her eyes in an effort to see, and the handsome senior, his white dress shirt's first buttons undone and his hair tousled, is the first who comes to clarity.  
"'Ponine?" Marius comes to her side, looking down at the girl who has only realized now that she is laying on a quilted bed. Gavroche, perched on top of a desk, is beside Courfeyrac and Enjolras leans on the doorframe, his arms crossed. "You feeling alright?"  
She immediately smiles at his concern and begins to speak, taking in a deep breath. Pain shoots through her chest, and she lets out a pitiful moan. "Damn it," she curses.  
"Must be the bruised ribs Joly talked about," Enjoras surmises, and she cannot decipher if he means to appear concerned. "You're in my apartment, if you're wondering."

It explains the orderliness of all the possessions around her, and the filled bookshelf she sees behind Marius. In fact, she does not know how she had not figured it out herself earlier, considering everything in his room was simply so… Enjolras. "Oh," she manages to reply. "Gav, what happened?" Her voice is raspy and exhausted, despite her assumption that she'd been in a peaceful slumber for quite a while.

Her younger brother looks around at the expectant faces of the rest of the Amis, unsure of how much to share with the boys. Courfeyrac puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it, and the young boy takes a deep breath. "Well, Pop kind of just knocked you against the wall," he replies, recalling the event. "But then I think 'Parnasse saw that and he kind of got mad so he knocked out Claquesous and shot at Pop."

She remembers the loud gunshot, and nods in understanding. "And he had to run," she finishes, knowing of Montparnasse's instinct to leave a scene untraceable. He knew well enough how to survive. A form frowns on her tightly pressed lips, upon realizing that her childhood friend would most likely go under the radar out of necessity. Her father would come busting down his door with more than merely himself, out for Montparnasse's blood. "Gav, you can't stay with him anymore."

"I know," the boy whispers to himself, his head hanging low. "I'll find a place, 'Ponine," he picks up his tone. "Don't worry 'bout me."

Courfeyrac clears his throat. "Say, buddy," he looks at him, ruffling his dirty blonde hair. "How would you like to stay with me and Marius?" He looks at his roommate, who shrugs and nods without an objection.

Eponine interjects, "Courfeyrac, that's really nice, but not necessary at all, he has plenty of-," she begins.

"Please, Ep?" Gavroche pleaded with his sister. "I don't want to go with Ms. Brujon, she's a terrible woman!"

"Yeah, Eponine!" Courfeyrac echoes. "I'll help him with his homework, promise. I'll drive him to school and I'll bring him back after tutoring."

She blinks at the sight of the two boys and their attempts at coaxing. "You can't just adopt my brother, Courfeyrac, you could get in a lot of trouble," Eponine reasons, only to meet a snicker from Courfeyrac. Of course he wouldn't get in trouble—the Courfeyrac family paid too much money for him to ever be in trouble under university regulations. "Enjolras, tell them this is a terrible idea!"

He purses his lips for a moment, looking down at the ground before back at the girl expecting an answer. "It would be the advisable thing to do," he concludes, and she lets out a huff. "I don't condone child kidnapping, but I suppose Courfeyrac looks to be a suitable guardian for now."

She slumps her shoulders against the headboard in defeat. He hears his phone buzz against his pocket, and swipes for the unread text message.

**Nicolas Joly: **_Make sure Eponine gets enough rest and doesn't get out of bed to try to get home. Provide her with pain relievers and an ice pack for her bruised ribs, and popping in a movie wouldn't hurt either._

He is in the process of replying to Joly's text message, expressing his gratitude over the advice his friend had learned upon becoming one of the university's volunteer EMTs, when another one comes in.

**Nicolas Joly: **_And when I said movie, I didn't mean your History Channel boxed set._

He scoffs, abandoning the thank you message and shoving his phone in his pocket. "Eponine, Joly advised that you stayed the night here for the swelling to go down," he announces to her and the rest of the room. She looks to be displeased with the news, but the draining of her energy renders her to be unusually submissive, as she nods her head once, slinking back down onto the pillow.

"Thanks, 'Ponine!" Gavroche grins, hopping down from his seat. He pounds knuckles with Courfeyrac, as the two roommates bid their farewells with the boy between them. Despite her hesitance, she cannot bring herself to be worried—she knows, despite his deep admiration for Montparnasse, that no other person is more prepared for the job of taking care of him than Courfeyrac.

"I brought some clothes, if you wanted to change," Enjolras breaks the long silence after the rest of the boys depart. She eyes the pile beside her, and she sits up with the slightest difficulty.

"Thanks," she replies. "You really don't have to do this, I'm sure I'll be fine going home."

Enjolras shakes his head. "Joly's orders," he refers to the medic. Eponine refuses to believe that her heart sinks knowing the act of kindness is not voluntary for the older man. Perhaps she had hoped for at least a friendship, but it leaves her questioning why she even considered any likeliness of that.

He retreats to the kitchen to complete Joly's orders, absent-mindedly gathering all of the supplies. He supposes Grantaire will demand extensive explanation of the new house guest, but worry does not register with him—after all, he does not seek any explanations for Grantaire's frequent antics. He tucks a bottle of water underneath his arm while carrying an ice pack and aspirin, returning to Eponine who has already tucked herself in. He knocks on the door, and she turns her head in the sound's direction. She notices his fatigue once the boys have all emptied out of the apartment as he yawns, turning his head to his side. Gently laying the supplies on her bedside table, his lips form a tight-lipped smile. "Good night, Ms. Thenardier."

"G'night, Enjras," she sleepily says into her pillow as she tucks the ice pack underneath the covers on her side.

* * *

She wakes up early the next day—not only out of habit, but out of a rustling in the kitchen. Sitting up, she notices the pain has not dulled quite as much as she would prefer, and grimaces as she swings her feet over to the side of the bed. She meets hardwood rather than the rug of her apartment, and it returns to her that the maroon walls and the oak furniture belongs to Enjolras.

Her fingers reach for the ever-present elastic hairband on her wrist as she gathers her tresses into a ponytail, glancing at the clothes that Enjolras had offered her last night. It seemed like a casual act at the time, but now her cheeks redden as she imagines how ridiculous the oversized sweatshirt and the athletic shorts, though rolled up at least 4 times, looks on her. She finds the thought of Enjolras wearing the casual clothes himself to be more ridiculous.

She walks to the kitchen, the floor creaking to her dismay and pops her head in to see the source of the noise. Grantaire is helping himself to a bowl of Fruity Pebbles as he stands and leans against the kitchen counter, watching over his food sizzling on the stove. She realizes that he must be the other inhabitant of the apartment, and walks forward to reveal himself.

"Oh hey Enj, didn't know you were still—," he looks up, eyes widened as he nearly chokes on the cereal he forgot he was chewing. "You… are not Enjolras."

She lets out a small, awkward laugh. "Yeah, I'm Eponine," she replies lamely. "We've met."

He looks down at her attire, and lets out a gasp of utter astonishment. "You're wearing his clothes," he states. "Did you… last night…"

Eponine's eyes almost burst out of her sockets. "No!" she exclaims a little more loudly than necessary. "No, it's really not like that, I promise. I don't even think we're friends."

Grantaire scoffs. "Nobody really thinks they're friends with Enjolras."

She tilts her head to the side. "What?"

"Marble man. Auguste Apollinaire Enjolras," he clarifies. "Nobody thinks they have a friendship with him, everyone kind of just assumes he's an asshole who does nice things sometimes."

"That's his first name?" she thinks out loud, laughing. She'd never heard a name so fitting for the much-too-proper scholar. Despite his efforts to be anything but pretentious, years of his childhood grooming and manners cannot simply be discarded. "And he's not an asshole who does nice things sometimes?"

"Enjy? Nah," he laughs, thinking of the most understandable way to describe the tendencies of his childhood friend. "His heart's beating there somewhere. You don't really notice it, but he always does a lot more than what's required of him." He speaks in such a sage manner that Eponine does not believe him to be the drunk she had met at the party a few nights back. "Yeah, that little fucker's a big softie."

The apartment door swings open, and Enjolras strides in from his earliest morning class.

"Oh hey Auguste, Eponine was just telling me how great you were in the sack last night," Grantaire casually greets him with a mouthful of cereal.

Enjolras growls, "Shut up, R."

"See? Softie," Grantaire says to her, and she begins to find amusement too in the irritation of the serious man.

She doesn't love his rigidness, or that he appears to do things out of obligation.

She refuses to believe he has the capability of genuine love.

But it doesn't matter, because she doesn't love him.

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews! Tell me what you think of this one, the accompanied art will be posted on tumblr soon but I have to run for now and wanted this to be uploaded.**

**With all the love in the world, Rina.**


	6. Chapter 6

She doesn't love him.

Despite Grantaire's words, she finds herself to still be an inconvenience to him by her mere existence.

By midafternoon, both Grantaire and Enjolras are in class as Eponine changes back into her own clothes, ready to flee the scene unnoticed. It requires thought—she wants to express her gratitude sufficiently to the man who had done so much for her, and the hospitality that his living companion offered.

She thinks about the arrangement they had going on, the humorous wine prince and the man he calls marble. Perhaps Enjolras does not seem to particularly enjoy his friend's snide comments, but he did not appear to wish away his presence. Instead, they operate with such a comfort and she can't help but notice that one ultimately betters the other.

She leaves a small note of thanks before shutting the large wooden door on their apartment and starting on her trek back to her own.

Cosette does not ask questions, and Eponine acknowledges the wisdom of her silence. Of course, she can attribute it to two reasons: her roommate is well aware of her less-than-optimal upbringing and her preference for its discretion, and Marius had probably told her all that he knew about the subject. Regardless, Eponine flips open her philosophy book without further conversation than the pleasantries, in an attempt to understand the Reid assignment that her teaching assistant had graciously assigned them the other week.

She sighs, knowing full well that she must enlist Enjolras' assistance again but does not find biting the bullet to be quite appealing at this point. For a few moments, she contemplates going on a long run or reorganizing her sparse desk—anything to do besides ask for more help. She doesn't need him to think of her as unintelligent or dependent, or at least apparently more dependent for help than he already does.

Still, she opens up her email and forces herself to construct the most neutral, yet cordial email she can. Within fifteen minutes of her awaiting an email, she receives the same neutrality.

_Ms. Thenardier,_

_Unfortunately, I will not be available tomorrow evening as my internship has required my services. However, I have told my good friend and fellow teaching assistant, Mr. Louis Combeferre, that you are in need of help for the assignment and he is willing to meet with you at 8 pm tomorrow at the library. He is well-qualified in answering any of your questions._

_I hope you have regained most of your strength._

_Sincerely,_

_A.__Enjolras_

She does not understand why it gives her the smallest bit of happiness that he is even slightly concerned at her well-being. Perhaps, she had already reached the assumption that aside from Marius and Courfeyrac, nobody blatantly expressed interest in her well-being. Her small joy then is defeated by her self-pity in the realization. Perhaps he is not truly concerned, and she is overplaying his kindness. Still, she remembers Grantaire's testimony on his character, and she resolves that Auguste Enjolras is simply a nice person.

* * *

She arrives at the familiar library, this time without delay to see the familiar face that she assumes to be Combeferre, seated on one of the two-person setups.

Everything about Louis Combeferre exudes with sensibility. From his perfectly pressed button-up shirt and cardigan to his neatly stacked pile of books to the systematic way he takes his glasses off and cleans them with a microfiber cloth, he does not seem to have an improper, wild bone in his body.

He stands up upon seeing her, extending his hand "Eponine, correct?" He smiles warmly. "Louis Combeferre. Louis or Combeferre works, not all of us have the strict last name rule." She laughs at his harmless mockery of his friend.

"Yup, Eponine," she replies. "How do you all know each other? You, Enjolras, Grantaire, Dorian, Marius."

He hesitates for a moment, but not fully enough for it to be noticeable. "Enjolras and I were in all the same freshman classes," he replies, half-truthfully. "And I guess the rest of us just have the same interests." He understands the vow of secrecy to the society, taking it with the utmost seriousness. Even their girlfriends—or whatever label is appropriate for the women they involve themselves with—believe the friends to meet frequently without exact purpose. "So what do you need help with?"

She brings out her half-finished assignment, sliding it across the desk.

Combeferre smiles when he reads the topic of the assignment, showing clear enjoyment of the subject matter. She realizes he is not Enjolras, in many ways. He appears to take the job as a form of enjoyment over philosophy itself, while she does not truly understand why Enjolras is a teaching assistant in the first place aside from the desire to exert authority over a group of introductory philosophy students.

He explains Reid to her with such a familiarity, with references that any college student would understand. He speaks to Eponine as if she were an old friend, and she almost reaches the feeling that he is. He is much less forceful with his accusations, though he does seem to thoroughly believe in them—he is instead in a discussion rather than a monologue.

They are deep in discussion over Reid's concept of prudence and hypocrisy, when a female voice interrupts Combeferre's speech. "Louis?"

They turn their heads to look up, and see a tall, slender, auburn-haired and fair-skinned girl. "Yvette," Combeferre replies, nodding at the girl. "How are you?"

The girl named Yvette eyes Eponine as she toys with the golden rings on her fingers, and immediately, Eponine wants to retract into her sweatshirt and hide from the girl. She understands herself to be a peasant among royalty—Combeferre, in his oxford shoes and his expensive shirts, and Yvette toting a designer bag and flashing her freshly manicured nails. At some point, Eponine had grown thick-skinned over her poverty, yet this did not stop her from feeling utterly uncomfortable among the wealthiest college students. "Fine, thanks," Yvette replies coolly. "It's so admirable that you're helping out the scholarship kids. Is that another one of your social justice projects?"

Eponine almost drops her jaw at the condescending nerve of the other girl, while her cheeks redden in both fury and embarrassment. Combeferre, picking up on this, immediately searches for a sufficient response. "Actually," he begins to say defensively. "I was just having an incredibly engaging discussion with Eponine here. She has utterly keen insight on Reid's philosophy."

"Oh," Yvette laughs humorlessly. "Anyway, I was just wondering if your friends were planning on attending the peace gala this weekend. I understand it must be so hectic to RSVP, but my father's expecting you and Auguste to be there." Combeferre has to contain his disapproval to her use of his first name. "In fact, I was wondering if you happened to know whether Auguste already has a date. I'd hate for him to wander in stag, that poor thing."

"Well, um, Enjolras," he begins, immediately getting to the correction. "Yes, I believe he has a date. Well, one in mind. He's yet to ask her."

"Oh really?" Yvette asks, clearly interested. "Who might that be? I might know her."

Eponine raises her eyebrow at Combeferre, wondering what point he intends on salvaging his train of lies. "Well, you just met her," Combeferre smiles slyly. Eponine finds herself trying to prevent her eyes from bursting out of her sockets. "I think he was planning on asking Eponine."

"Hmm," the interest leaves Yvette's voice as she narrows her eyes at the athlete. Eponine doesn't know who she wants to punch in the face first. "Interesting. Well, I suppose I'll see you Friday evening then." She does not clarify who she is speaking to, and turns on her heels and walks away gracefully before any further inquiry.

Combeferre looks down on his notebook, almost frightened to meet the blaze in Eponine's eyes. They remain in silence for almost a minute, before he boldly tries to hack through the tension. "So that's Yvette," he says.

"I cannot believe you," Eponine whispers loudly. "What made you think that was even remotely okay?"

"What? Oh," Combeferre says sheepishly. "I mean, maybe Enjolras was actually meaning to ask you if you wanted to come. You never know."

"I highly doubt that," she retorts. "I'm pretty sure he would probably not have minded going with whoever that was instead of some dumb athlete he tutors that he rescued from an alley once."

"He doesn't think you're dumb," Combeferre corrects her. "In fact, quite the opposite, actually."

She tries to hide the surge of pride from the compliment he pays. "That's beside the point," she replies wryly. "Anyway, what makes you think that I'm not busy that night? Didn't think that one through."

"Well, do you?" Combeferre asks, earnestly. She lets out a sigh, meeting his sincere gaze. Of course, Eponine's schedule has never been fully booked with important appointments, but she refused to believe she had time to meander in a large hall filled with the city's most elite. "Look, Eponine. You don't understand the importance of the role you're playing. Half of the mothers attending want to marry their daughters off to the Enjolras family. That's like a straight shot to political royalty."

"Oh, so I'm angering half the mothers and daughters at this event. I'm glad," she rolls her eyes. "I'm sure Enjolras has other female friends who would love to help him out." Combeferre looks at her like she's joking, and even she understands the ridiculousness of her most recent statement.

"If Enjolras accompanies Yvette, then he has to tolerate her all night," he explains. "If he has to tolerate her all night, I have to tolerate her all night. You at least owe Enjolras anyway."

Eponine grumbles, almost inaudibly, "I don't have a dress."

Combeferre's lips spread into a wide smile. "We'll get that figured out, don't worry. Thanks, Eponine."

* * *

"I'm what?" Enjolras asks, the subject important enough for him to take his eyes off of his coveted daily newspaper.

"Yeah, Yvette Tholomyes asked me if you were going with anyone to the peace gala and I told her you asked Eponine," Combeferre rushes to the sentence before taking a sip of his freshly brewed coffee, Grantaire grinning to himself on the kitchen counter.

"You could've told her I wasn't going at all," Enjolras shoots back, irritated. "I wasn't planning on wasting my time on something so worthless."

"Society tradition that all men attend one social event, and this one's probably the least worthless," Combeferre points out in typical logical fashion.

Grantaire chuckles. "Come on, Enj, at least your date's a smokeshow," he adds. "Yve's gonna throw a bitch fit, I can already see it, she's been waiting on the hand selection of Madame Enjolras since fifth grade."

"We are not dragging Eponine into these stupid marital games," Enjolras objects.

"Someone's protective," Grantaire snickers, and Enjolras shoots him a dagger of a glare.

"Look, she already said yes," Combeferre justifies, adding an essential piece to his argument.

"She did?" Enjolras pauses, tilting his head to the side.

"Oh sweet Jesus," Grantaire exclaims. "He's happy about it! Holy shit, he wants it!" Enjolras returns his angry stare at his roommate, but Grantaire does not stop flashing his devious grin.

"It would make sense," Combeferre thinks aloud, and Enjolras groans at his right-hand man catching onto the trend. "I mean, Eponine lacks all the traits you find so repelling about all the women who want to involve themselves with you."

"She's not an heiress," Grantaire begins.

"She's independent," Combeferre adds.

"Apparently not afraid to get kicked in the gut," his roommate continues.

"And you're right, she _is _intelligent," Combeferre points out, Grantaire nodding in agreement.

"Enough," Enjolras finishes the list. "We are not having this discussion." He picks up his cup of coffee to retreat to his bedroom, much conviction in his light yet commanding steps.

"You're picking her up at six!" Combeferre yells after his roommate, who has already shut the door.

"You devious little shit," Grantaire laughs at Combeferre, who is trying to stifle a smile himself.

As far as his two friends are concerned, he's on his way to loving her.

But still, he doesn't love her.

**A/N: Sorry for the late update! I'm not too entirely proud of this chapter, and I'm sure the prospect of a fancy gala isn't the most enthralling plotline but I promise you, this will not turn into "Enjolras takes Eponine to prom." This is just a minor pit stop, so please tune in!**

**Also, I really don't know how I'm doing. If there aren't any reviews, I automatically think I'm doing a shit job so please let me know what you think otherwise I will just curl up in a hole and stop writing.**

**Review, or talk to me on ****enjolrastic**** on tumblr! Hardly anyone inboxes me, and I like making friends.**

**The art accompanying this chapter isn't up yet, apologies. But follow me and you'll find it on your dash at some point later tonight!**

**Much love, Rina**


	7. Chapter 7

He doesn't love her.

In his perspective, love emits foolishness and a wandering mind, but whatever sensation he is feeling in his stomach is not at all the love that Jean Prouvaire speaks of when he goes on his tangents.

Both he and Combeferre are already dressed in their standard black tie attire, his friend putting on his silver watch around his wrist.

Enjolras hates it all. He hates these unnecessary formalities, the very thought of making small talk with his three hundred of his family's closest friends, the questions that he knows they are sure to ask—"How much is your share in the company after graduation? Have you been watching the energy industry lately? Ridiculous, isn't it?" He could care less about the workings of the stock market, or the outcome of whatever horses their pretentious wallets were put on over the weekend.

He is truly convinced there are better things to do—the university custodial workers have just received a cut in their pay, and attending a peace gala deprives him of any productivity in action towards the injustice. Instead, it provides him a dire need to gouge his eyes out, but he is sure neither Combeferre or Eponine would speak to him if he were to do so.

Combeferre, on the other hand, is much more understanding of the necessity to attend the event. "If you show up to these events more often, 'Jolras, maybe your father would be less insistent on your presence at his corporate board meetings," he suggests. Of course, Combeferre is always right in his opinions of practicality.

One night won't hurt too much, Enjolras reassures himself.

* * *

"Oh, you're going to have such an amazing time, you look beautiful!" Cosette squeals happily as she assigned herself once again to dress Eponine up. Her roommate replies with a groan, contorting her face in disgust.

Earlier, Combeferre had dropped off a crimson evening gown, not specifying where exactly he had attained the piece, mumbling that he had a friend of some sort. He left before she tried it on, and Eponine quickly understood why he did not want to be there for the fitting.

"Cosette, I can't wear this," she widens her eyes as she stares at her own reflection. She turns around to face her roommate, who is met by the bare expanse of skin on the top half of Eponine's torso.

The blonde lets out a giggle. "Well, Enjolras certainly won't have trouble taking his eyes off of you."

Eponine's cheeks almost match the hue of her dress. "This is not funny!" she exclaims. "They'll probably already think I'm some sort of street whore, and this is just bringing it upon myself."

Cosette laughs at her roommate's rare dramatics. "Okay, hmm," she thinks, and an idea comes to her mind as she smiles excitedly. "Wear a necklace, that way it distracts from the plunging neckline. Oh, I have the perfect one!" She reaches into her jewelry drawer and fishes out a golden chain with a large pendant, with rays that make the piece resemble the sun. She assists Eponine in the clasp, and smiles satisfied at the finished product. "I'm a genius."

Eponine turns back around to face her own reflection, and she wills herself not to smile like a fool. She does not wish to believe herself to be vain, and she likes to believe a pretty dress alone does not make her feel on top of the world. Still, she can't help but for once feel even the slightest bit of pretty—her tresses pulled away from her face artfully, and the make-up painted on her so subtly. She wonders if this is how a girl is supposed to feel normally, before dismissing her foolish thoughts.

The doorbell rings, and Cosette claps before leaping to attend to the guest. As she awaits the visitor, she paces nervously in her room, wondering if it is too late to hide under the covers and feign sickness. She's sure Enjolras would understand, and she could blame her sore ribs or some sort of bug that she has caught from the locker room air.

"'Ponine, your date's here!" Cosette calls from the entryway, and Eponine makes the slow walk in her's (and by her's, Cosette's) heels, her normally strong legs ready to collapse at the most tender wind. She reaches the hallway to see Enjolras waiting, hands in his pockets, observing some framed picture sitting on the shelf. She almost does not want to disturb him, as if she can just stand there without him noticing and eventually they would miss the gala.

Instead, he turns around when he hears the click of her heels on the kitchen tile and, rather than immediately acknowledging her presence with his usual over-formality, he finds himself unable to do much more multi-tasking than staring and breathing, and even managing to blink. She reminds him of a woman ablaze—not a flashy, loud wildfire, but a controlled smoldering flame of heat. He wills himself to divert his eyes from the smooth, exposed flesh above her neckline, from the collarbones that he had been so drawn to a few nights before. Instead, he brings his gaze to meet her own, and he can sense the nerves and the thoughts running a mile a minute in her mind.

Cosette watches the awkward exchange from behind the kitchen counter, almost unable to contain a giggle. "You clean up very nicely, Enjolras," she pipes up, before taking a sip of water.

"Yes," Enjolras absently replies, before realizing the terrible response he has given to the compliment. "I mean, thank you." Cosette almost spits her water out when she notices a blush creep into Enjolras' cheeks. He clears her throat. "And Eponine," he begins. Cosette cannot prevent herself from smiling as she anticipates a profession of how breathtaking her friend looks and how he wishes for no other man to lay eyes upon her. "Thank you for accompanying me."

The blonde's smile immediately disappears, and she almost has to reprimand her palm for having such a strong urge to meet her forehead. She looks at Eponine, whose facial expression has still not changed from its subtly frightened state.

"Of course," Eponine replies quietly.

He extends an arm out to her, and she takes it gingerly as she steals a glance at Cosette who mouths an excited "oh my god."

"Don't try to have too much fun, kids," her roommate says happily from the kitchen as Enjolras opens the door for the two of them.

When the door shuts, she immediately lunges for her phone on the kitchen counter and rapidly dials Marius, ready to unload the sudden influx of emotions in her system.

* * *

The car ride to the museum is quiet, and Enjolras' habit to drive without music only further impedes any progress of loosening the high tension. Eponine looks out of the passenger seat window, observing the blocks of office buildings they pass through.

Enjolras clears his throat once more, and she turns to him to patiently wait for him to speak. For a moment, he forgets his wording as he feels her gaze on him, but he quickly recovers. "I really appreciate your time," he says.

She lets out a small laugh. "I know, you already told me," she replies. She had almost forgotten how humorously serious and uptight Enjolras seemed to be, but he quickly reminds her with his statements. "Besides, I owe you anyway, so I guess you can consider us even now."

He lets out a chuckle, so quiet that Eponine almost finds the need to convince herself that she hears it. "Then I guess you owe Courfeyrac multiple dates for every day he looks after your brother," he comments, before pausing. "I mean, not that this is a date or anything, in fact this is very, very informal and-,"

"Enjolras," she interrupts him.

"What?" he asks quickly, looking at her.

"Not a date. I get it," she replies, an amused tone to her voice.

"Right," he mutters, returning his focus on the traffic.

They arrive at the museum of the gala, with its large pillars and lights and grandeur. Men and women are scattered around the steps to the premises, all talking and walking up to the large entrance doors. Enjolras pulls up to the valet, and attends to Eponine's side of the car after getting out of his own. She is not used to the various gestures that seem to be second-nature to him, and she tries not to overthink the smallest acts of kindness. _Marius did all of that and you thought he was in love with you too, you idiot_, she reminded herself.

On the bottom of the steps, both Eponine and Enjolras recognize Combeferre in a suit almost identical to Enjolras', accompanied by a couple with interlocked hands. She recognizes the familiar male face as Nicolas Joly, but the woman—with her voluminous hair and a beautiful violet dress against her porcelain skin, bears an unknown yet friendly face.

"Oh my god," the woman exclaims, clutching Joly. "She looks perfect in it!" She approaches Eponine excitedly, with energy that makes an excited Cosette appear terribly docile. "Honey, you can keep the dress. You are slaying me right now." She nudges Combeferre playfully. "Good taste, Louis." Enjolras' eyes narrow at his right hand man, who averts his gaze to the loor.

Eponine pauses in confusion before connecting the dots. Standing before her is the friend who Combeferre mumbled about. "Thanks for letting me borrow it," she replies politely. "But I don't think these occasions are going to be too frequent."

"That's a shame, you're much more interesting than the rest of the lovely ladies," the woman replies, and her smile returns. "Musichetta." She extends her small hand.

"Eponine," the other girl replies, genuinely pleased at her acquaintance. At least one woman was different from Yvette.

"Walk with me, Eponine," Musichetta grins and extends her arm out, before pulling Eponine along to walk ahead of the gentlemen.

As the women distance themselves, Enjolras comes up to Combeferre's side. "Joly," he nods at the other man who smiles back before Enjolras turns to Combeferre. "Nice of you to pick out my favorite color," he comments wryly, evoking a laugh from the high-spirited Joly.

"You act like it was my idea," he replies. Of course, their third roommate was the mastermind behind the plan.

Eponine turns around for one moment to show the back to the owner of the dress, and the men catch a glimpse of Eponine's bare chest. Joly pays special attention to the necklace, a smile forming on his lips. "Well, it looks like Apollo's finally met his sun."

"So tell me, Eponine," Musichetta begins. "How did you conquer that fine piece of stone? He looks like he'd be great in bed but the boys told me he's basically neutered." She pumps her fist to herself victoriously. "I knew they were wrong."

Eponine blushes furiously. "No! It's not like that. He's my TA, actually."

"Oh," Musichetta gasps quietly. "That's scandalous."

"No, no, no, I mean there's nothing else," Eponine clarifies. "I'm just his student and I guess I owe him so Combeferre thought this would be my repayment."

Musichetta nods in understanding. "Must be a huge thing he did for you," she surmises. "Like I said, these things are wretched. One minute you're just a date and the next, some angry old women are out to get your ass for desecrating the eligble bachelors in their high society."

The comment leaves Eponine thoroughly amused. "You're not one of them?"

"Hell no," Musichetta laughs. "I'm a waitressing actress with a few pennies to my name."

"So where'd these dresses come from?" Eponine asked curiously.

"My roommate studies fashion design, we go to the art school," Musichetta replies happily, running her hand along the airy fabric of her own dress. "I may or may not take advantage of her talents." She moves on to another subject, a serious tone coming over her voice. "So how much do you know about the Enjolras family?"

Eponine shakes her head. "Nothing."

"Hmm," her new friend purses her lips and thinks. "Well, there are a few things you need to know. I'm sure you figured out that he's terribly rich, total old money stuff, the usual. But he's an only child which is why literally everyone's daughters, mothers, and sisters chase him around all the time. And last of all, if you think Enjolras is emotionless, you should meet his father." She pauses, before adding quickly, "Actually. Don't do that. Try not to do that."

"What about Joly? Why's he here?" she asks curiously.

"Oh, you sound just like them with all the last names," Musichetta comments, humored. "Nicky's the only one who attends these things willingly. His parents are actually really nice people—they're these top officers in the health department. Like I said, it's the other ones you need to watch for." She moves onto the last unmentioned man, figuring she might as well finish it off. "And Louis is here because his parents are usually in attendance too."

They reach the hall and find the table with ease, Eponine seating herself next to Enjolras, Combeferre on her other side. They are joined by a young entrepreneur named Thomas Feuilly, who is as well without female company. A small orchestra plays while waiters float around with food, and Eponine can almost feel herself choking at the extravagance of it all. She's fairly certain that the centerpiece is made of real topaz embellishments, and she almost weighs the pros and cons of swiping a few of them and pawning them off. Clearly, these people had a surplus of precious stones.

Light chatter fills the room, interwoven with the sound of the strings, and some sort of three course meal is served. While Eponine does not often get such expensive food, she hardly touches anything in fear of scarfing everything down like an emaciated child. The conversation between them is effortless, mainly centered around Musichetta's humorous observations and her playful banter with Joly. She wills him not to take out his thermometer to measure the conditions in which the food comes in, and she succeeds, much to everyone else's relief. The only man not speaking at the table, to no one's surprise, is Enjolras.

Eponine fears, however, that she has spoken much too soon—as a gray-haired man approaches the table, putting a hand on her companion's shoulder. He has the same strong jaw and piercing gaze, and she knows it can only mean one thing. She looks at Musichetta worriedly, but the other girl returns her look with one of reassurance and comfort. Combeferre, too, stiffens up, and the entire dynamic of the table changes.

"Apollinaire," the man greets his son, and Eponine questions the use of his middle name. "No silly protests tonight? At least that's a guarantee my money won't go towards bail." Eponine watches his jaw clench, and she finds herself experiencing sympathy for the insult at Enjolras. It seems that hurting his beliefs and actions are the quickest way to wound the seemingly impenetrable exterior of the warrior.

"No, I decided I might try some worthless pretentiousness tonight," Enjolras answers back. "Hope I'm doing you proud."

The man lets out a venomous laugh. "Of course you are. And who's this young lady?" he asks, condescension dripping through his voice ready to wash Eponine away like a powerful flood.

"This is Eponine," he says before she even thinks about opening her mouth—not that she would even wish to, of course. He puts forth the most hostile civility in his tone, and she dares to meet his father's gaze for the smallest second.

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms…" he trails off, leaving her to fill in the blanks.

Her heart stops for a second, before she forces an answer. "Thenardier. Eponine Thenardier." She does not know why both his voice and his stare is so haunting, so strikingly familiar to her, but she fights off the shivers that are waiting to race down her spine.

Her feelings correspond with a flash of interest in his eyes, but he quickly extinguishes it and faces his son once more. "We're meeting tomorrow morning over drinks. I expect you to be there."

Enjolras meets his father eye-to-eye, before replying with such simple force. "I'm busy."

"I'm sure it's not important," his father responds, before turning around to walk off.

As soon as he is at a far enough distance, Eponine turns to him and he looks at her apologetically. She has a strong urge to slip her hand over his in sympathy, but the way he immediately resumes his rigid stature ultimately tells her not to follow through with her instincts. She questions the existence of his vulnerability.

After the dinner, the rest of the group has gotten up to socialize with the rest of the guests. Eponine and Enjolras are left with their champagne, the male still wordless as he loses himself to his own thoughts. Eponine breaks the silence. "You know," she begins, as Enjolras snaps out of his daze. "I don't think I envisioned this in my little girl dreams of being invited to a ball." He doesn't know if he is part of the conversation, or if she's merely thinking aloud, until she looks at him with an unmistakable honesty.

"It's like they fill a room with everything pretty in an attempt to cover up the intrinsic ugliness," Enjolras replies to her, toying with the centerpiece absentmindedly. She can't help but smile at his wisdom, even in the smallest talks.

"Why do you hate it so much?" she asks him, though she almost expects him to shut himself off again.

He spends a few half-moments in contemplation before replying, "Do you ever realize how potentially insignificant your life could be?" he asks her. "How there's so much to be done and yet, here you are, existing and contenting yourself in trivial pleasures and disposable joys. How nothing you amount to will stay after you're gone." She is tugged by his mention of death, and it takes her a moment to adjust her own perspectives to his—one of passion and an unquenchable thirst for significance. He does not understand why he cannot stop the words from falling out of his mouth, but the way her bright eyes look at him so curiously connects every thought he thinks into words said aloud. He doesn't know if it's the champagne he's downed in the past hour or his emotions making their rare appearance, but he feels so incredibly earthly and vulnerable.

"So you're saying," she begins. "That you're scared of being unproductive."

"I'm not scared," he corrects her. "Scared implies I think it might happen. I don't because I've made sure to cut all these things that might make it possible, yet here I am at a pitiful evening of an attempt at noble charity telling you all of this."

She smiles, amused. She herself doesn't understand why the conversation is so easy at this point, but she dares not question it. "I don't know the specifics, but I think the world can weather a night, maybe even ten, without you saving it," she replies. "For what it's worth, you're saving a poor soul from third-wheeling on Marius and Cosette's weekly movie night."

"Why do you like him?" he asks so directly, Eponine almost asks him to repeat himself.

"Marius?" she questions him, though she knows the answer. "He's a nice guy."

"You look at him like he arranged all of the constellations in the night sky," Enjolras replies nonchalantly, and Eponine blushes at the barely hyperbolic statement.

She wants to know how he's even picked up on that bold accusation. She wants to lie to him, tell him that she's much more than her stupid infatuation with Marius. Instead, she sighs honestly, "I don't know." She spends a few seconds in her own thoughts, before adding, "You talked about feeling insignificant. I guess he's the only reason I don't." She laughs to herself. "I just turned your deep existential crisis into the woes of a preteen."

Her comment forces an amused smile on his lips, but he catches it and ceases before it lingers too long. "Would you like to dance?"

"What?" This time, she definitely feels the need for his repetition.

"Your childhood dream ball. It had dancing, didn't it?" he surmises, and she looks at him with bewilderment over what he is suggesting they partake in.

"Maybe," she replies, and he stands up and extends his hand. She does not understand why she takes it—normally, it takes her a pint of beer to even consider standing on a sweaty dance floor. Clearly, the environment slightly differs, yet the portion of her sane mind urges her to sit back down.

But he leads her so effortlessly and it almost doesn't feel like dancing. She blames it on the champagne for loosening her feet enough to dance. Her ballerina dreams were never fulfilled by a single lesson, but he looks much too experienced to have never danced with a girl before. She thinks of what Enjolras might have been before he'd turned to stone, and she smiles at the thought. Her smile doesn't leave when her eyes meet his as he twirls her around, then pulls her body in close proximity to his.

He doesn't understand if it's his favorite color that she's wearing that makes him feel so at ease, or the fact that it is one of those rare moments where he wants someone to even comprehend, just a little bit, how it's not so easy to harden one's heart. He doesn't know why she admires the lights and the music as if she weren't in a room full of the wealthiest scum in the state, and he doesn't know why he wants to feel that way too. She belongs in that state, he decides. Not forlorn and battered in an alley.

Musichetta tugs excitedly on Joly's arm from their place afar, "Look!" Not even the worst of astigmatism can deny Joly of the fact that he can see his good friend so enticed with a girl. And here they thought Enjolras had some sort of hormonal impairment towards women.

He exchanges a look with Combeferre, who out of mannerism cleans his glasses before putting them back on and taking another look at the two.

They conclude that neither of them understands.

They finally come around to resting after the third song, and Musichetta leads Eponine away to stand by her by the bar.

"What. Was _that_?" she asks, almost unable to contain her volume.

Eponine bites her lip, shrugging. She looks across the hall back to where he and Combeferre are standing, and sees the familiar girl from the library approach the two. Her walk is practically a dainty float, and her white dress reminds Eponine of some sort of divine being in a painting. She does not understand why she's jealous—Enjolras dances with her once and she realizes this is what she suddenly amounts to. This is why she didn't get involved with emotions. "Nothing," she replies. "It wasn't anything at all."

He belongs with all of the other cherubs in the hall, she concludes, as she has another glass of champagne.

* * *

"Auguste," the girl coos as she places a hand on his arm, and Enjolras almost flinches at the contact. "Care to dance?"

Even his slightly drunken haze does not encourage him to find the activity appealing. He feels nothing. Not attraction, not lust, not even the smallest appreciation over the attention. "Not particularly," he replies, looking away from Yvette.

Combeferre watches as the statue reverts back into its marble state.

She takes his hand, and he prevents his instinct from rapidly drawing it back. "You seemed perfectly fine with dancing five minutes ago," she pouted, and his intense stare meets her flirtatious eyes.

The exchange looks incredibly different viewed by the girl in red from afar.

His right-hand man looks at him curiously to see his response.

"You must've been watching a different man," Enjolras assures her of his refusal.

Combeferre smiles to himself as he looks down.

If he knew his friend properly, he knew Enjolras hated these formal gatherings—he spent sufficient time speaking of their lack of worth.

But he agrees—because a different Auguste Enjolras was enjoying himself a few minutes ago.

He has a hunch that the gala is not responsible for his friend's uncharacteristically high spirits.

But if he knew his friend properly, he would know Enjolras' answer to his burning question:

No.

He doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: First and foremost—thank you for all the reviews. Seriously. You restored my faith in my own writing, which led me to immediately come up with this chapter which I feel a lot better about. (But secretly I think you guys might hate it so we'll see how that goes).**

**But in all honesty, if you don't think it's that great, please tell me. I listened to a few requests (of course Eponine would be in a red dress, I couldn't resist) but I decided not to make this that action-packed of a chapter. Sorry if that turned a few of you off, but I promise we'll get the ball rolling soon.**

**So please please please please review this chapter. If you've never reviewed before, please do. In fact, I encourage you to review all the writers you read! You never know how much work the person put into a piece, and to feel like it's going so unnoticed is one of the saddest feelings ever. I've gotten a bit better about reviewing since I know how that feels (:**

**Also, thank you to craic-cocaine for talking to me on Tumblr. Really appreciated the message! If you ever want me to respond to anything you say, inbox me at ****enjolrastic**** on tumblr.**

**One more question—how would you guys feel about it if things got upped to an M-rating in the future? I've been considering it and I don't entirely know how I feel.**

**Much love, Rina.**


	8. Chapter 8

He doesn't love her.

Realization dawns upon Enjolras that he doesn't even know her, and one cannot simply can't love something that he does not know.

Fittingly, he can hear her stubborn voice in the back of his head—"There are some things you just _know_," he remembers her saying. She perhaps believes, also, that there are some things that one simply loves.

She lazily traces the rim of her champagne glass from across the door, wondering not if it is prudent to acquire another serving, but if she cares enough. Her thoughts are interrupted by a cold hand on the small of her back—she knows it is not Enjolras. His is warm, and his is not accompanied by a strong stench of whiskey and musk.

She would prefer not to meet his gaze, to close her eyes and pretend that he will soon realize that she is not who he is looking for. When he does not leave, she turns around to face the man. His steely grey eyes burn right through her, and she finds herself resisting biting her lip out of fear. She does not give out admittance of her fear that easily. "Can I help you?" she forces out.

He chuckles. "Actually, I was hoping to help you," his voice is smooth like the surface of a frozen ocean. "It looks like your boyfriend has done the injustice of deserting you."

She scoffs. "Good observation, but he's not my boyfriend. Thanks for the sympathy, though," her statement drips with sarcasm. She is ready to turn back around to the bar, when the hand on her slips further down to a perverse level. She shoots him a look that sends the usual street delinquent running, but the man does not back down. Instead, a smug grin settles on his face.

"My suspicions are right, then," he appears satisfied. "Tell me, how much is the Enjolras wage for a working woman like you tonight? I'm sure it can be outdone."

She almost breaks her champagne glass handle in fury. "Excuse me?" she asks, though she hardly needs to hear the statement again. "I think you've got the wrong idea, buddy. Kindly fuck off before I-,"

"Before you what?" he interrupts. "My word over some rich boy's date's. You're not the first piece of dirt to come through here dressed in diamonds."

Heat rushes into her cheeks, and before she thinks any further, one hand empties the champagne glass on a few thousand dollars of threads, and the other meets his smooth cheek in speed and power, the contact of the palm against his face creating a loud noise causing heads to turn.

It certainly catches Enjolras' attention, and he walks with anger and urgency towards the scene. He finds himself waving people off to attend to their own business, but to no avail. Of course the purposeless crowd is only looking for the next big commotion. "Eponine," his low voice booms through the whispers, and she turns to face her date. At first, she feels the need to fight off a prideful grin, but upon looking at his serious, intense glare, all joy towards the action quickly dissipates.

"Apollinaire, thank god you're here," the man chuckles. "Clearly your escort over here can't take a joke, I was merely asking her—"

"Mr. Tholomyes," Enjolras interrupts. Eponine rolls her eyes—of course they're related. "I'm sure you've offended my _friend_, and I hardly think anything you're about to say is going to make it any better. It might be wise for you to shut up." The man at first lets out a laugh, but when his is not accompanied by any others, he falls silent.

"Right. Have a good night," the man forces a grin on his face, before retreating into the hallways.

The rest of the crowd only needs a glance from Enjolras to go about their own business, until all that's left in his vision is the girl in red, looking at him with such indignation. "I believe it's time for us to go home," Enjolras says stiffly, and sends a look to the nearby Joly and Combeferre to indicate his wishes.

"I'm sorry, are you mad at me?" she asks, bewildered as she struggles to keep up his brisk pace out of the museum. "You're shitting me right now. You're mad."

"No, of course not, I thrive in unwanted attention over two people's drunken conflicts," he snaps back, keeping his stare forward as he meets the valet who possesses his keys. He opens the passenger door with force, still refusing to look at Eponine.

Her jaw is clenched. "Drunken conflicts? You think this was just my run-of-the-mill barfight?" she retorts.

"I'm sure whatever you were arguing about with Felix Tholomyes could have been settled with in a manner that didn't involve such an unbecoming resolution," he replies, keeping his eyes on the road. "Really, if you were having such a terrible time, you could have just said so."

"Unbecoming? Of all the things that you're concerned with," she replies, angrily. She folds her arms, and her voice lowers in volume as she keeps her chin up and looks off into her own window. "You know, for someone who claims to be repulsed by the lifestyle, you're a cold, pompous ass sometimes, Apollinaire."

He's heard it all before—he's made of marble, he gets angry at the littlest things, he's an uptight soul where all good spirits are laid to rest. He doesn't know why it offends him coming from her, or why he almost winces when she uses his most loathed name. He spends the rest of the silent car ride telling himself it truly does not bother him.

* * *

"They were _dancing_?" Courfeyrac's eyes widen, and Grantaire squints as if he strains to conjure the image in his mind. He mixes the pancake batter still trying to imagine it, and when he finally does, a satisfied smirk appears on his face as he licks the mix caught on his thumb.

"Stop, this is too much," Cosette exclaims dramatically, fanning away the fake tears threatening to fall, as Marius lets out an amused chuckle. "Tell me they held hands or kissed or something."

"Sorry, can't say it was a fairytale ending." Combeferre laughs at the reactions to his updates, before the boy sitting on the kitchen counter gags.

"I can't believe you guys actually like this," he groans. "My sister and that Mr. Stick-up-his-,"

"Gavroche," Marius warns, pointing a finger at the boy to reprimand him if should he choose to continue. His stern message, however, is countered by a snort from Courfeyrac.

"Sorry," Gavroche mumbles, looking down at his tattered sneakers, as his tutor ruffles up the hair on his head. "I don't know what she sees on him," he sticks his tongue out like the idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"Ahh, c'mon, Gav, I'm sure he'll grow on ya," Courfeyrac chuckles. "You should give Enjolras a chance." Gavroche shakes his head adamantly, and the older boy ruffles his dark hair. Their laughs are interrupted by keys going through the door, and Grantaire and Combeferre look at each other with a knowledge that Enjolras must have finished his mandatory board meeting this morning.

They are met with a pleasant surprise when Jean Prouvaire follows him through the door. "Didn't know we were hosting a brunch," Enjolras mutters as the crowd meets Prouvaire with warm welcomes. The innocent-faced man takes a seat on the breakfast table, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater as if to signal his preparedness to devour whatever Grantaire has cooked up. He is the most adequate of chefs among the boys, surprisingly, and Enjolras even admits it is the redeeming quality to his residence in the apartment. The man in the business suit looks up to find all of the eyes staring at him, rather than engage in their usual casual banter. "What?"

"How was the gala?" Cosette pipes up with an unmistakably cheery air.

"Fine," Enjolras replies shortly. He has never had a full conversation with the supposed ray of sunshine, but he assumes the underclassman in his company would be unappreciative should he come off as unpleasant. "I'm sure Combeferre can provide sufficient information."

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at his leader's aversion. "Heard you and Ep had a good time," he chortles, and Enjolras shoots an ungrateful glance at the younger man.

"Pleasant," Enjolras replies shortly, before undoing his tie and retreating to the couch. He flips open the morning paper, signaling his desire to sever communication with the rest of the room as the group returns to their chatter, moving on to conversations about Grantaire's culinary perfection. The man, of course, takes all the compliments as well as he does his Jack Daniels syrup.

Courfeyrac's phone interrupts the breakfast, and he steps aside into the living room to take the call much to Enjolras' irritation. "Oh hey Ep," he says into the phone, and Enjolras forces himself not to look up from his paper. He has flipped over to the sports and comics section, but he could hardly care less as he listens in. "Yeah, I'm with Gav. We're not home though, we're at Grantaire's apartment. Yeah, Grantaire's, Enjolras', Combeferre's, however you'd like to put it. Oh, alright, we'll be here. See you in ten then, I guess." Courfeyrac looks up from his phone to turn back around to the group. "Gav, your sister's picking you up." The boy lets out an unhappy groan, and the rest of the breakfast party laughs in response.

Enjolras turns his wrist to check his watch frequently—the longest ten minutes of his life, he can safely claim. He doesn't know whether to retreat into his room, or pretend to suddenly need to leave for the library—of course, it would not be a stretch of imagination for Enjolras to desire to study. Instead, he stays planted on the couch, and finally, the doorbell rings.

No one stands up to answer the door, and the entire breakfast area's eyes land on the one nearest to the door. Enjolras puts down his paper unhappily to get up, muttering complaints under his breath. He swings open the door to an at-first cheery Eponine, an earphone in one ear and the other hanging around her neck. She is covered in sweat, her collarbones glistening against the white workout tank-top she dons. The smile quickly leaves her face. "Oh. It's you," she mutters, looking down at the ground. "I was hoping you weren't home."

"Eponine," he begins, though not as stern as he usually conveys her name. "I'd like a word." She looks up and nods, as he leads her past the kitchen into the balcony area, shutting the French doors behind him. Grantaire is quick on his feet to get to the nearest point where he cannot be seen from the outside, cupping an ear in an effort to enhance his hearing.

She turns her back to him, the wind blowing the tendrils uncaptured by her loose ponytail away from her face. She makes it known that the ball is in his court, and he puts his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. "I'd like to apologize for my reaction last night," he manages to say.

"Sorry, what?" she asks, turning around with a satisfied smirk on her face. "Couldn't hear you from all the wind."

"I said I'd like-," he begins again, rolling his eyes.

"I was kidding," she interrupts him. "You're forgiven. Sorry for all the shit I called you, but it was true at the time."

"That's not fair," he argues. "It was an unpleasant night and-,"

"Oh, it was unpleasant now?" Eponine looks at him offended, crossing her arms and sending him the clear warning to choose her words wisely.

"Yes, but not-," he doesn't have time to explain further, before she empties the water bottle on her hand all over his business suit. She refrains from slapping him with as much force as Felix met, but from behind the doors, Grantaire can hear the contact as he lets out a gasp. He does not have time to react when Eponine flings the doors open, proceeding to take Gavroche's hand and make an abrupt exit out of the apartment. "Ow! Eponine, sheesh, are you taking me on a marathon?" he complains, dragging his backpack on the floor to slow her down, but to no avail. She slams the door.

Marius and Prouvaire hold down their laughs the longest when Enjolras walks back into the kitchen with a soaked suit, and a facial expression that Grantaire has to actively resist whipping out his camera phone to photograph. He is the first to surrender to his laughter, and Courfeyrac does not last much longer. Cosette's own high-pitched melodious giggles cannot be prevented by her hands covering her mouth, while Combeferre lets out a low chuckle.

He doesn't know her, but if he asked Cosette, or even Marius and Courfeyrac, he has a feeling they could have prevented such a fate.

He doesn't love that he has finally (and he would object to this claim, of course) met an equally stubborn force to himself. She is like a tempest waiting to wreak havoc, and he is unsure of whether he wants to uncover more.

He admits, he is curious.

But it's not because he loves her.

He doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: I tried for some comic relief… did it work? **

**Just to answer some concerns about upping the rating—I assure you this will not turn into a raunch fest (though reading those, I'd admit, are a guilty pleasure), and I will probably not write smut in vivid detail because it would distract from the pace that the story goes, as well as my style. But we still have quite a bit to go before that, don't worry. So enjoy it at T for now!**

**Please tell me what you think. All of these honest, genuine reviews make me so happy, and I'm always open to ideas and criticisms. I value your opinion, I promise.**

**Also, very sorry for the wait.**

**My question for this chapter: Which of the Amis are you hoping to see the most action from? I have a few ideas on who my best supporting character is going to be, but I'd really like to know what you think.**

**Much love, Rina.**


	9. Chapter 9

He doesn't love her.

In the middle of his countless papers to grade and the impending work due for his internship, he finds his mind breaching the topic of his… student? Acquaintance? He does not even know what she is—he does not dare say friend, because he full well knows it is a stretch of the word's denotation.

He hardly thinks of any of his friends in his sacred work time, and he prefers it that way. He transforms into a well-oiled, efficient workhorse tackling all of his responsibilities, getting lost in the smallest tasks that bring him one step closer to saving the world.

It frustrates him that there she is, interrupting the fluid movements of his thoughts like a dam in the middle of a gushing river.

He scans the stacks of paper and spiral notebooks laid out systematically in front of him, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to remember just what he was intending on doing a mere five seconds ago. Just as he is about to reach for the stack of folders he intends on going through, the phone in his pocket vibrates and he lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Hello?"

"Oh, good, you answered, Combeferre said you'd be at work," the voice of Courfeyrac replies cheerily from the other time. Even his charisma does not prevent Enjolras from rubbing his temples.

"I am, but that clearly does not matter," he retorts, only to meet a chuckle from the underclassman who appears not to take him too seriously.

"Listen, I need a favor really badly, and I've already talked to everyone else," he starts, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Long story short, I need someone to pick up Gavroche from school." Enjolras, at least, appreciates the direct approach. When he does not answer, Courfeyrac goes on. "Look, I really need someone to do it—Marius is busy attending some senator's dinner thing and Combeferre and Grantaire both said they had—"

"Fine," Enjolras grumbles. He hardly believes Grantaire's excuse, whatever it is, to be legitimate.

"Great! Solid, man," Courfeyrac rejoices. "He gets out in half an hour. Thanks Enj." Before an annoyed Enjolras can complain about the short notice, the line goes dead and he is left to mutter to himself at the inconvenience. The stacks of legal pads in front of him taunt him—he never had a chance at being productive today anyway.

* * *

He pulls up to the familiar brick building to see the young boy waiting on the steps, his head propped on one hand and his other holding a twig, poking at a crack in the pavement. The black sedan comes to a halt by the curb, and he exits the car to meet the child.

A frown forms on the boy's dirty face. "Where's Courf?"

"You know as much as I do," he replies flatly, as he opens his passenger door and gestures for Gavroche to enter the vehicle. Unquestioningly, the boy gets up and enters the car, carrying the large twig along.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. "Where are your belongings?"

Gavroche looks down at the ground, before getting in the car. "Pop took my backpack when he ran from 'Parnasse," he states sadly, as Enjolras gets in his own seat. He comes to the realization that the younger boy is talking about the event that happened just the other week—a fading memory in Enjolras' mind, but he wonders if the younger boy is as unaffected by it as he seems.

"Who's 'Parnasse?" he asks, his voice unwavering in neutrality.

Gavroche pauses for a moment, to think of who exactly Montparnasse is. Until Courfeyrac entered his short life, Montparnasse was the only person in his life who came remotely close to being a brother. Montparnasse was what Gavroche understood to be his future. He looked forward to earning the knuckle scars, and he begged the man to let him at least touch the gun with his small hands. Montparnasse always denied the request. Gavroche looks up and shrugs, "He's just always been around, I dunno," he thinks out loud. "'Ponine sent me to live with him when she left to go to school, they've known each other since before I was born. Don't think she trusts him though."

"Why not?" he presses on.

Again, the boy meets his question with a shrug. "She always tells me not to trust anyone," he replies. "Not even Montparnasse."

He implies much from the statement, though he admits that it does not surprise him. "Do you trust Courfeyrac?" He understands the strangeness of the depth in their conversation, but Enjolras knows no other way. Gavroche seems more than competent for his age anyway.

The boy takes no time to hesitate. "Yeah, why wouldn't I?" he replies, as if it is mere common knowledge. "He feeds me better than 'Parnasse does at least. Which reminds me, it's Tuesday. Tuesday's ice cream day."

Enjolras takes his eyes off the road to look at the boy, who returns the look with an expectation that he knows exactly what he means. "What?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays, Courf takes me to the ice cream place and gets me chocolate ice cream," Gavroche explains. "Someone's gotta pay me back for living with him." Enjolras almost cracks a smile at the boy's witty comment. "There's one down that corner we always go to," he nods at the upcoming block with the large ice cream parlor sign.

Enjolras sighs, driving around the corner. He is not a man of defeat, but he hardly thinks it effective to argue with whatever traditions that boy had. He stops in the curb, expecting the boy to unbuckle his seat belt and happily skip out of the car, but instead he stays put in his seat. "Are you not going to get your ice cream?" he asks, taking his wallet out of his back pocket to shell out a few dollar bills.

"What? Are you crazy?" Gavroche asks him, shooting him a look that has even Enjolras questioning his own intelligence. "The lady in there doesn't serve me," he explains sheepishly. "She says dirty street urchins are bad for business so Courf usually runs in and orders for me."

Enjolras frowns. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," he replies. "I'm certain that's probably illegal and you're a paying customer. You have every right to their service. You should boycott," he suggests, discussing strategies as if he weren't talking to a child.

"I should what?" Gavroche tilts his head to the side.

"You should refuse their business and go somewhere else," Enjolras explains, though not altering his grave tone. "They'll surely lose some profit since you're a regular customer."

Gavroche grins. "So get back at 'em?" he ponders on his words with such enjoyment. "I like the way you think, mister." He takes a short pauses, before his smile disappears. "But I don't think that's gonna work," he continues. "Ya see, me being little is only part of it. But everybody knows Thenardier's littlest brat when they see him."

"But you don't live with your father," Enjolras points out.

"Don't matter," Gavroche shrugs. "Better to kick the pup before he grows up, I guess."

"Gavroche," Enjolras begins. "I refuse to let you think like that. Your last name should not allow you to be treated in such a manner." He puts the car back in drive, and starts back up on the road, pulling away from the creamery. "You can become anyone you want to be."

Gavroche grins at the words, so opposite to all the street smart wisdom he's heard of. "You really think I could be like Courfeyrac one day?" he asks the man eagerly.

Enjolras finds himself almost contorting his face imagining Gavroche adopting Courfeyrac's ways. He hardly sees him as the perfect role model. "I suppose if you want to be," Enjolras shrugs.

"Or maybe like you," Gavroche adds, and Enjolras masks his surprise, looking at the boy from the side of his vision as he imitates the hands on his wheel. "Get myself one of these fancy things." The boy makes impressively accurate motor noises with his mouth. Enjolras has to stop his lips from forming a smile—the feeling is foreign to an only child like him. When they cross the bridge to the better side of town and Gavroche's cheeks are smeared with chocolate ice cream from an unassuming elderly man's snack truck, the boy makes an honest attempt at a confession. "You ain't so bad, chief."

* * *

In a rundown hospital, Eponine races past the sliding doors to get to the front desk in response of an urgent call. She pants, "Hi, I was called in for Xavier Montparnasse." The nurse nods, directing her to a white room no different from the others in the intensive care unit wing, with the sound of faint beeps interrupting the silence.

"You dumbass," she mutters under her breath as she sees the heavily wounded mess sprawled out on the hospital bed.

"I heard that, bitch," he manages to breathe out a raspy voice, his lips barely fighting the effects of sedation. She looks up to meet his eyes, but she does not even know if they are his anymore. Gone is the smolder, the gaze that had all her former female classmates whispering even long after Montparnasse gave up on schooling. His cherry lips, devoid of the familiar smirk, instead almost trembled—Eponine blinked before she could figure out if they truly showed the uncanny vulnerability.

"You could've at least not done a piss-poor job at hiding yourself from them," Eponine rolls her eyes. She conveyed no sympathy, but she sits down on the chair beside his bed in an attempt at comfort. Her eyes linger on the bruises on his cheekbones, and she has no trouble imagining how they were inflicted. She is much too familiar watching their blows, down to the glint of light that Guelemer's brass knuckles reflected.

He laughs, though it sounds like more pain than it is truly worth. "Not a fucking coward," he protests weakly. The searing pain in his abdomen forces him to expend most of his energy on breathing.

"At least a coward knows what's good for him," she retorts, leaning on the hospital bed. She does not hold his hand, does not touch his body—it is unnatural for the two volatile souls to exchange in gentle contact.

"Dying's the perfect thing for me," she hears him struggle to say, and she stares at him in disbelief. When she watches him look blankly at the ceiling, she feels a stab to the chest. He is serious. She realizes that he has stopped fearing death a long time ago.

"That's not funny, Montparnasse," she says angrily, but he lets out a laugh anyway.

"I used up all my damn luck making it past twenty, Ep," he says slowly, and she wishes he would stop talking—because she can tell it pains him to do so, and as much as she hates to admit it, it pains her as well.

So she does the only thing she knows is safe. She begins to leave.

"Ep," he breathes out, the loudest he's been so far. She turns around and meets his sunken eyes. "You won't forget me, right?"

She looks down at the floor, trying to piece together a brave face. She wants to tell him she will visit tomorrow, that she's coming back—but she knows that is not what he wants to hear. It never has been. When she left the ruins, he never asked for her to stay because he didn't want her to. They had always been terrible for each other. All that Montparnasse is yearning for, in his weakest state, weaker than any withdrawal he had ever experienced, is the knowledge that he is worthy of being a mere presence in her mind.

She looks up at him. "Thank you," she replies, and it is a more satisfying answer than anything Montparnasse could desire.

* * *

The harsh wind blows away her composure as she exits the gloomy building, the apathetic doctors paying no heed to another distressed maiden without a chance in mustering up the copayment. She has no use for the sympathy they are unwilling to give anyway, and she walks onto the uneven pavement only to stop on the steps of a building a few minutes later in an attempt to gather herself.

She craves a cigarette, or a drink—she quit the former long ago when she knew collegiate athletics were the only route out of the rundown town, but she suddenly blames the shaking in her hands on a nicotine addiction that is no longer even there. She searches her bag frantically, though she knows full well she has not kept a pack since graduation.

A scuffed up leather shoe gently kicks her leg, and a hand extends a flask. She looks up to meet Grantaire's knowing gaze—she is getting quickly tired of the familiar look from all of the boys. "I know what someone who needs a drink looks like," he skips the greetings and takes a seat next to her on the steps.

"What brings you to this hellhole?" she asks him, toying with the loose threads at the ends of her sleeves with much false fascination.

He nods across the street to the dimly lit establishment on the corner. "Favorite bar," he replies. "Sorry about your loss."

She looks up at him in surprise and confusion. "What? Nobody-," she replies, about to correct him. Nobody died. Montparnasse may be near death, but she refuses to believe that his long-anticipated expiration has arrived.

"If not someone, then some sort of ideal," he replies. He, himself, is too familiar with the feeling. While his friends live in a state of mind full of the birth of visions of the better, he has always been the one to watch hopes sink to dust. "I won't ask, don't worry." She doesn't know why comfort washes over her with such a simple phrase, but she feels like much more of an equal to him than she has with anyone so far.

She takes the flask and feels the satisfying slow burn of vodka warming her throat.

"When I was around six, I lived in a place that looked like this," he begins to say, and though Eponine never asked for a story, she does not mind. "That was after my mother and younger brother passed in the same year and dad couldn't handle it, so he sent me to another family for a bit. And then he started making money and I guess life got… easier." He spent a few moments in silence before adding an afterthought, "Not better though."

She looks up at him. "Family's a strange thing," she comments, and he nods in agreement, taking a swig.

"Eponine," he says quietly, and she looks up at the older boy. "You know we're friends, right?" She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, but her face softens when he looks at her with an unmistakable genuine concern. "I mean, I'm pretty shitty at it, I've been told, but I think the free liquor offers are a great start."

She can't help but let out a laugh, and nod. "We're friends." She takes another drink, feeling the warmth in her cheeks start to trickle in. "Don't think Enjolras is gonna enjoy this one, though, I think he's halfway to hating me right now."

He snickers. "I've seen what Enjolras looks like when he actually hates someone, and he's nowhere near hating you, darling," he replies, amused. "He's just never really had to talk to a woman before and I think you're a little tough for his first case."

"What's that supposed to mean, asshole?" she asks him, though her tone dances between offended and humored.

"It means you have the wrath to make the gods fall," he chuckles, making it known that he means no offense.

She rolls her eyes and shoves him lightly. "You're an idiot."

She wonders what a fallen Enjolras even amounts to. He must know nothing but righteousness and justice, she assumes, that he would be purposeless being so low to the ground among lowly mortals like her. His purpose is to bathe in the light with the rest of the privileged angels. He is not like Grantaire, she concludes, who knows how it feels to bleed and feel pain. He is untouchable.

Does she want to see him fall?

Fall for what? _Love, of course_, a rare idealistic version of herself speaks up in the back of her mind, but she almost laughs out loud at the thought. Ridiculous.

She doesn't love him.

* * *

**A/N: -hides because there is no direct E/E in this chapter but guys, look, character development!- Sorry, this chapter's shit, I know, it sounded a lot better last night. I feel like I'm in a perpetual state of discontentment.**

**For those who asked for an Eponine/Grantaire friendship, here it is! More Amis are coming, I promise. This chapter's purpose was just exploration of the two main characters through interaction with the people closest to the other—for Eponine, Gavroche. For Enjolras, Grantaire. And Montparnasse because hi.**

**But please tell me what you think. Did I romanticize Montparnasse too much? He is by no means a hero, but I needed to capture him in Eponine's light, or how she would have known him, past the criminal record. Plus, hey, creative license. But tell me what you think of my version of Parnasse.**

**Also, one more question. How do you feel about me adding some deleted scenes on Tumblr? They're most likely not going to be E/E (hence why they're deleted) but there are a lot of side stories I've wanted to write that are too small to add to the story without interrupting it (i.e. does anyone want to see Combeferre and Grantaire attempt to go dress-hunting for Eponine's gala dress? Nobody?)**

**So review! Or talk to me on tumblr at ****enjolrastic**** because I really am interested in what you think.**

**Always,**

**Rina.**


	10. Chapter 10

He does not love her.

On his worst days, he hates petty things like love more than usual—he hates everything. His coffee is not as intense as he would like it to be. His pen does not write as smoothly as he would prefer. And Grantaire's laugh is louder than the level that he can tolerate.

The worst part is, her own loudness accompanies his because suddenly, the two have become inseparable. She, Grantaire, Bahorel and Marius are huddled in front of Grantaire's laptop watching some supposedly hysterical video, and Enjolras assumes it probably involves some animal.

He hates that she's almost in tears, and Marius is crinkling his nose in laughter. A noticeable frown forms on Enjolras' lips, but as far as the rest of the group is concerned, his furious stare is his typical way of telling the rest of the group to quiet down. Such a request, to them, is perfectly ignorable.

He loathes Grantaire's open-door policy, because these impromptu gatherings always occur and Enjolras cannot get any work done crouched over the coffee table, a few feet away from the lively kitchen and dining area.

Combeferre takes a seat next to him on the couch, a mug of earl grey tea cradled in his hands as he raises an eyebrow at his unhappy flatmate. "Why don't you go to the library?" he asks.

"I shouldn't have to kick myself out of my own home," Enjolras mutters as his concentrated gaze returns to the comforting familiar yellow hue of his legal pad.

On a good day, Combeferre would leave his actions unquestioned—but as if Enjolras needs any more confirmation that it is a terrible day, Combeferre presses on. "That's never bothered you before," his unfailing reason poins out. "Unless, of course, there's a particular reason why you're staying…" he tails off, and his lips of constant logic form a small smile.

"Don't fill your head with such bullshit," Enjolras deviates from his eternally eloquent diction. He's even starting to sound like her, and he'd curse the misfortune if it didn't drive the point home even more.

He blames Grantaire—she has started to occupy the seat next to him at the café, the other half of the blanket on his usual spot on the lawn, and one day, she even shows up to their doorstep late into the evening with his arm slung around her, cheeks flushed, sweaty and hazy-eyed after a night at a dive bar.

To make things worse, their more frequent exchanges do not even gradually become more pleasant. A week has passed, and she still does not talk to him more than she has to. He wants to tell her to stop being childish, but he eyes liquid containers nervously in fear that they'll land on his clothes just as easily.

"Hey Louis," she calls from the kitchen, and Combeferre looks up, the conversation ending between the man and his best friend. "Can you help me with some philosophy stuff?" she asks him, and Enjolras lets out a huff down at the coffee table. He is the teaching assistant; he is who her grade depends on, and she's enlisting assistance from Combeferre. He is much too annoyed by her childish avoidance that he does not focus on his own maturity.

"Is something wrong, Enjolras?" a soft voice from the far end of the room asks, and he meets the curious stare of Jean Prouvaire, his tattered journal in his lap while he holds the end of the pencil to the corner of his mouth. He forgets Prouvaire is there; more often than not, the entire room forgets that Prouvaire is there and the young man prefers it so. Enjolras appreciates his infrequent interjections because when the younger man does choose to speak, he is genuine, he is invested and he is concerned.

But today, he would rather not discuss his frivolous thoughts to the even the most kind-hearted of his friends. "No, not at all," he replies curtly, returning to his work.

"Oh," Prouvaire says silently, moreso to himself than to his leader. In a rare moment of boldness, he speaks up once more. "Do you still have my Pablo Neruda book?"

Enjolras looks up at him, quizzically studying Prouvaire's expectant face. "Yes, would you like me to go get it?" he asks. He thinks back to the small, paperback book that Eponine picked up in the car, unsurprised that Prouvaire had shed belongings from his always-filled beat-up leather backpack. For the son of a diplomat, Jean Prouvaire went past the boundaries of clean-cut and resembled more of a starving artist, fitting amongst the other literature majors seamlessly.

"No, that's okay," Prouvaire shook his head softly. "I think you should read it."

The older man opens his mouth to talk, and then closes it once more when he realizes he does not quite know how to refuse Prouvaire's request without sounding unnecessarily harsh. With everyone else, he does not have the problem—but Prouvaire, who has never uttered a word without a good intention, who does not consider Enjolras' annoyance as a form of amusement, who is a good person in his simplest nature, is spared of his constant wrath. "Sure," he mutters, and Prouvaire smiles to himself, satisfied.

* * *

The crowd grows smaller in a couple of hours, as Marius leaves to meet Cosette and Bahorel convinces manages to convince Prouvaire to drive him to the nearest Chinese takeout place. "It's not my fault my license got taken away," Bahorel grumbles, and of course, Prouvaire is the only one generous enough to succumb to his bitter reasoning.

Combeferre is still engaged in a discussion with Eponine over the text, much to Enjolras' dismay. She appears different without the presence of her underclassman friend, and he does not know why it upsets him that the smallest dulling of her shine has been caused by Marius' departure.

Grantaire sits on the kitchen counter, mindlessly solving equations and looking absolutely bored, as if he could be lulled to sleep at any moment by Combeferre's enthusiastic rebuttals towards Richard Dawkins. He shuts his book and yawns, getting up to plop down on the couch next to Enjolras. "Whatcha workin' on, statue of liberty?"

He does not even attempt to tear his eyes away from his laptop screen. "Rally preparation," he replies, trying to toggle with the font size on the pamphlets. Grantaire looks over his shoulder, and before Enjolras can swat him away like a pesky fly, his roommate takes the computer from his lap.

"Alright, grandpa, lemme fix this," he rolls his eyes, fixing the layout of the page with ease. Enjolras is quick to refute his incompetence in all areas, except for technology. He cannot seem to understand objects with multiple buttons and tasks—his app collection scarce, his mind devoid of special keyboard shortcuts. "What's this one about?" Grantaire asks, but his friend does not provide an answer in both a display of sore stubbornness, as well as a knowledge that Grantaire can read it himself. "Education in inner city schools," he raises an eyebrow as he reads the sub-heading.

Enjolras does not need to look up to realize that another pair of eyes have started to look at him. "Precisely," he says, returning to his reliable combination of pen and paper.

"What about education in inner-city schools?" the familiar female voice jumps in from the other side of the room, and a smirk forms on Grantaire's lips.

_Too easy_, he thinks, as he returns the laptop to its owner and leans back on his side of the couch, placing his favorite throw pillow in his lap waiting for his entertainment to unfold. He looks at the pillow to hide the smugness that has taken over his face.

"What? Oh," Enjolras looks up. Were Grantaire not so fixated on hiding his own facial expression, he would notice the tint of crimson coloring his friend's angular face. "The office I work for is pushing for the curriculum priorities to shift from the rigid standardized testing; we feel that success and financial support should not be built around a series of tests that do nothing to show intelligence."

Eponine attempts to hide a reaction, because she is positive that admiration will break through her unfazed exterior.

She still finds him infuriating, but she had only been acquainted with Auguste Enjolras, the rulebook personified, the rigid pillar of condescending morals. _Apollinaire_, she almost says out loud. He is much like the sun, ablaze when he speaks and setting off sparks with mere words.

When he is done with his lengthy tirade, she asks, "What brought this on?"

He knows immediately of a particular child who brought the topic to his mind, but he also thinks about her, and the most subtle intelligence he has ever had the luck of meeting. He dares not tell her, and shrugs. "It's been broken for a long time," he replies vaguely.

He can feel both Grantaire and Combeferre's fixed stares, the sight of their civility and Enjolras' female interaction leaving the philosophy major's mouth slightly agape. The cynic, on the other hand, looks at his friend proudly for not offending Eponine for five minutes straight. He is sure that must constitute for some sort of personal record.

She gets up from her kitchen counter barstool and sits down on the space between Enjolras and Grantaire, taking the laptop from him as she looks at the flyer. "This looks like a horror movie poster, easy on the red and black contrast," she comments.

He frowns. "It's supposed to be serious."

"You got the serious part down, but you also succeeded at really fucking intimidating," she replies.

"Lack of educational progress should be intimidating," he points out.

"You don't think they're not already scared?" she questions him, her voice defeating his in loudness. "I guarantee you, Enjolras, that every little boy is already frightened that he's going to amount to nothing. That's why he joins a gang in the first place. And I know that every good teacher is scared they're the reason for an early death on the streets of a high school dropout. Fear is clearly not the effective route here."

The room falls silent, and Combeferre finds himself closing his mouth in an attempt to prevent himself from breathing too loudly and triggering one of Enjolras' speeches of rage.

"You're right," he replies.

Grantaire lets out an uncontrolled gasp, and quickly covers it up with fake coughs accompanied by his balled up fist covering his irrepressible smile.

Eponine, on the other hand, rolls her eyes. "Of course I am," she says, handing him back his lap before checking the phone on her pocket. "Well, it's been fun. But I gotta go drop something off somewhere." Before they ask for more details from her, she picks up her bookbag from the kitchen counter and heads out of the door in silence.

Enjolras returns to his legal pad, and as Grantaire opens his mouth, he is quick to come to his own defense. "Not a single word from either of you."

Combeferre throws both hands up in surrender, and proceeds to pick up the dishes left around the dining table. "I have no words, my friend," he says with his back turned, over the sound of the running tap.

Leaning back on his corner of the couch, Grantaire does not contest. The victorious smirk on his face is enough to annoy Enjolras for the rest of the night.

* * *

She barely makes it in time for visiting hours, dodging the annoyed glances from the staff as she dashes down the hallway, but no luck accepts her as she meets her sleeping friend, the breaths synchronized with the ups and downs of his chest and the constant beeping of the pulse lines beside him.

"Hey," she says softly, taking her backpack off and sitting on the bedside chair. "I thought about you today." It's a good thing he's not awake, she decides, because the words would surely bring him heart palpitations of surprise over the sentiment. "Remember that time in third grade, when you hid your spelling test in your underwear because you didn't want any of the guys to know you got all of it right?" She laughs to herself, knowing he would deny such an accusation. "God, your mom was so damn proud of you." Vivid pictures of the small sheet of paper and the gold star came to her mental vision; for the few weeks afterwards, the empty refrigerator looked a little bit better. Her hand finds itself on top of his, and she runs her thumb against his knuckles. "You could spell circles around me any day, and I was so pissed." She falls back into silence, before crossing her arms and looking down at her feet.

"I really don't know how to feel about it, you know?" She continues. "He's got his pretty causes and he blows everyone's mind, but we were those children, 'Parnasse. We're not causes, we're _people_. He doesn't get it."

She doesn't entirely know how to feel about him.

* * *

He's sitting in the café, writing and rewriting on his yellow legal pad as Marius answers emails on the seat in front of him. Enjolras is amazed that the young man has not caught onto his preference of solitude yet, but he does not bother telling Marius to find some other place to sit.

"I think your education campaign's looking pretty impressive," Marius comments, typing away on his laptop. "How come you don't tutor at the school?"

Enjolras replies curtly, "I dislike children," without looking up as he pens his thoughts with perfect cursive.

Marius laughs, amused. "Then how do you expect to get the personal, then?" He asks questions so openly that he is not even aware that it is simply not a norm to challenge Enjolras' every stance.

"You don't need to know the oppressed to empathize with their plight," he mutters.

"But you already _know_ them, they're not some distant group you can put a label on, they're some of your friends," Marius argues, sighing. "I mean, look at Eponine, for example. She accomplished the impossible feat of beating apathy and I bet she knows a lot about the faults of an inner city district school system. Gavroche's reading levels are low but the teachers are telling me he could be a candidate for giftedness if his parents permitted testing." He finally at least earns Enjolras' eye contact. "Enjolras, you _know _actual people behind your cases."

He doesn't want to admit it, but Marius is far more intelligent than he wills to display. "Alright. Tell me about Eponine, then," he says, putting his pen down.

Marius shakes his head, chuckling. "Nope," he replies simply. "You have to do that yourself."

He looks at the younger man, dumbfounded.

He wants to know her, but he doesn't know if he wants to actually get to know her and become entangled in every little fascinating detail of hers because he is sure there are only more surprises.

He doesn't love surprises, even though sometimes, he learns to love their outcomes.

But he doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: There's some foreshadowing in this chapter, but I don't really feel like giving it away in the author's note. That'd just be no fun-but if you pick up on it, let me know what you think it is (:**

**Sorry this took so long, I got stuck in the middle and instead wrote a one-shot to fuel myself. Go check it out, it'll be on FF soon—but it's on my tumblr right now, All Exits Look The Same.**

**Anyway, about the deleted scenes I proposed: so I'm definitely doing them, and I've already gotten a few scenarios written out. I'm making a deadline for myself (kind of) and will post them when this story hits 110 reviews. This is not to **_**force**_** you to review, but to give me a sense of when I need to finish it. Also, if you noticed something I mentioned in the story but didn't completely write out, or if you want me to possibly write a drabble of a scene in this fic's universe of certain characters in a specific situation, let me know and I'll add it to the outtake list.**

**I'd love to know what you thought! Much love, Rina.**


	11. Chapter 11

She doesn't love him.

The process itself, to her, is much too emotionally expensive—and Eponine finds herself poor in just about every aspect imaginable. No, she needs to breathe—to truly breathe freely.

She does so in the only way how—she runs. Step by step, her lungs learned to withstand the miles. Soon, a weak mile became five, and five became a half marathon, and then a full. She controlled her heart—she learned how to breathe through the pressure, so that the aching in her chest disappeared into a calm rhythm.

The sweat rolls down her bare shoulder blades, the sun beating through her back. The mid-autumn breeze no longer bites into her skin, and she ascends up the final hill to make it back to the campus. She bites her lip at the burning of her leg muscles, but she continues to breathe—one foot in front of the other; an exhale, and an inhale. At her final step to the front gates of the university, she lets out one final huff before reducing into a panting mess, her hands linked above her head.

She breathes, and breathes deeply, and for a moment of exhalation, she feels like everything is under control so long as she controls the air that passes in and out of her lips. Her hand presses against a light post beside her, taking a moment to abandon her strength to simply breathe.

She forgets where she is; if she paid attention, she would see the sparsely filled and dimly lit Café Musain. If she went into the finer details, she might even meet the steadily brewing storm of his eyes.

She is framed by the fixtures of the streets, painted into the morning scenery like a dash of Matisse on the canvas of Botticelli. Disruptive, he admits, but much too intriguing to be overlooked or underestimated. She turns her back to the glass window, and he thinks about the mark of conflict running across her back. He does not need to see it to know where it is, and he does not know whether to be frightened of knowing.

Auguste Enjolras does not forget details, and Eponine Thenardier is a conglomerate of erratic etchings in every direction. He could not forget even if it were in his deepest wishes.

"Enjolras," Combeferre repeats loudly.

His eyes dart back to the direction of his conversational partner, who looks at him patiently for an answer; if only he had listened for the question.

"Yes?" he asks, hoping to the highest divine beings that Combeferre does not catch his focus faux pas.

"You're not paying attention," his friend states, matter-of-factly. "Is there somewhere you'd rather be, perhaps?" Accusation is absent from his tone—instead, intrigue takes its place.

"No," he shakes his head. "Of course not." From the side of his vision, he notices her absence, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. He needs her to be gone from his synapses, and the removal of her presence might aid his concentration.

Combeferre raises an eyebrow, sipping his water in skepticism. "It's okay if you don't want to deal with this today," he says, knowing full well of the likelihood of Enjolras ridiculing his statement. "These things can take a backseat today so you can deal with your personal matters. We'll regroup tonight."

"No," Enjolras repeats, his voice booming over Combeferre's, laced with a piercing sternness. "I don't have any personal matters."

It is Combeferre's turn to let out a sigh. "I think that's the problem here," he suggests. "Enjolras, you need _something _outside of work to fuel you. You can't save the world if you don't even live in it."

His patience wears thin—he has had enough criticism of his modus operandi for the week, but it is with great luck that it is Combeferre who he finally snaps in front of. "I do _not _need anyone to lecture me about drive and productivity," he argues.

"I'm not talking about your damn productivity," Combeferre replies, in a rare moment of aggression, before clearing his throat and taking a breath, keeping himself under control. It is a rare moment, to see Combeferre react upon pure sentience—yet the spark of the flame is put out when he realizes his place. "I just think that it would be healthy, Auguste, for your _soul_."

"My soul-," Enjolras begins, but the door flings open and the knob crashes into the interior wall, the rest of the café alarmed by the sudden noise.

Bahorel enters the café, the top buttons of his shirt undone and his tail untucked, in a mix of expensive clothing and clear neglect. "Oh god, I've been looking all over the goddamn campus for you two," he says. At first, they believed alcohol to be responsible for his appearance; but the way he strode in, the way his voice rang with unbridled urgency, quickly dismissed their usual assumptions. He took a seat in front of them, pulling out the laptop from his bag. "Have we been looking at our finances?"

Enjolras and Combeferre exchange looks. "No… when Feuilly graduated, nobody assumed the role," Combeferre realizes the mistake, feeling the terrible implication that a consequence has finally come to attention at the blunder.

"We're gaining a lot of money, guys," he rotates the screen to pull up the bank statements for the society's account. "The stocks we've always had are steady, but they're not _that_ good—not million dollar gains good." Bahorel runs a hand through his hair in frustration, scrolling down the transactions. "This money's coming from somewhere, and I'm all about money as much as the next person but I have a pretty shit feeling about this."

"Who's been signing for the transactions?" Combeferre asks, and Bahorel types into the laptop in quick response.

He frowns, deciding not to look up to gauge their reactions. "Auguste Victoire Enjolras," he replies. Combeferre dares to sneak a glance at the leader, whose eyebrows are already knitted together in thought.

"It's a hiding place," Enjolras thinks out loud. In a rapid fire of deductive reasoning, he reviews the possible scenarios in which his father would offer the society with a hefty sum of money. "The society account doesn't show up on his records—it won't show up on any of ours. They made that deal with the bank when the whole thing started. If anyone ever found out about the society, our names would never be associated."

"Why is he hiding money?" Bahorel asks, his curiosity well-evoked.

Enjolras pauses to think, before looking up in frustration. "I don't know," he replies, the three words he detests uttering forced out of his throat. "I'll find out, though," he promises the two of them.

"Why were you looking at our finances anyway?" Combeferre asks, the question pushed out of the back of his mind.

Bahorel lets out a short laugh. "I wanted to know what our booze budget was."

* * *

"Victoire, don't do this," a female voice gravely commanded the silver haired man behind his mahogany desk. He does not spare a glance towards his wife's pleas, as her thin lips form an unamused grimace, her arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the unfazed gentleman.

"Don't tell me you actually want to see your son's name on a ridiculous ballot in the future," his voice travels across the room.

"We are an entire family of public officials, I don't see why you're doing everything you can to stop Apollinaire from becoming one," she replies coldly. "And if you must, this is not the way to do so. This will ruin all of the hard work he has put into it, have a heart."

He lets out a humorless laugh. "I'm doing what's best for him, Mercedes," he replies calmly, his stare still fixed on the digital screen in front of him.

She shakes her head. "No," she replies angrily. "I'll tell him. I'll tell him about all of it and he'll figure something out before you can wreak your havoc. I have no doubts that Apollinaire can outsmart anything you're responsible for."

"It would be a shame for the entire world to know about your private affairs, my dear wife," Victoire replies, a sinister smirk crawling its way across the sides of his face.

She does not reply, though the glare she sends at him conveys the message sufficiently. It's a shame he does not look up to even feel her scorn.

He picks up the phone. "Connect me to Gregoire," he orders his secretary, who responds curtly in the positive. He leans back on the oversized swivel chair, sighing in contentment. His mind flashes back to the vivid image of the girl at the peace gala; oh, how useful of a pawn she would be in his games. So, so incredibly disposable, yet such a perfect fit in his plans.

Victoire Enjolras has no problems using anyone.

* * *

Once more, they are gathered; the allure of Grantaire's fettuccine alfredo drive the boys into a crowded dining table, Joly and Bahorel arguing over elbow space while Prouvaire sneakily helps himself to the sauce bowl. Marius and Enjolras talk heatedly over economic policies, and the rest of the table glares at the two of them.

"Give it a rest and eat my damn food," Grantaire grumbles. He hears too much of Enjolras' stances on tax breaks for large corporations, and as much as it intrigues him to listen to someone like amiable Marius Pontmercy disagree with him for once, it only takes him two minutes to insist upon the retirement of the topic.

Enjolras shoots an irritated glance at his housemate for snuffing out the flame of a worthy conversation. He admits, Marius is much more intelligent than he lets on—he talks of summers spent in his worldly travels, and his perspective is surely widened by such experience. He is not the upper-class boarding school product that he appears to be; his charisma immediately causes all prejudices to vanish in conversation, and he does not only have the power to be right, but also to be trusted.

But Enjolras could not deny that the best attribute of engaging in contact with Marius was that he enjoyed beating him. He is not bothered with competition—he is a man of solitude, his goals completely intrinsic that he had never fed off of a need to be better than others. But he does not allow himself to think that Marius can truly paint the stars in the sky, though he even seems capable. He'd like to think Marius isn't "all that"—and he blames her for this childish notion of wanting to be better than the unassuming underclassman.

He hates that she admires Combeferre's passion towards the human mind, is repulsed by her affinity to Courfeyrac's charm, loathes her compatibility with Grantaire's cynical humor, and absolutely detests the state of enchantment she is in towards Marius'… everything.

And what was he to her? Nothing, apparently, but a cold and pompous ass.

He can't win with her, and the more he looks at Marius, the more he gets irritated—and he is absolutely infuriated at himself for even paying heed to such pointless details.

Gavroche is seated between Courfeyrac and Enjolras, squeezing himself in excitedly with eyes illuminated by the very prospect of food. Grantaire serves him a hot plate of chicken fingers, and it takes all of his willpower not to lunge forward into the golden breaded masterpieces and devour them with one single swoop.

"Enj'ras," the boy pipes up, elbowing the older man in the side.

"Ow, what, Gavroche?" he asks, frowning.

"You weren't listening?" Gavroche asks, incredulous to the rare occasion that Enjolras is not perfectly in tune with the conversations happening in front of him. "I said pass the silverware, yah dummy."

"Gavroche," Marius uses his usual warning tone.

The boy looks at Marius defiantly. "'Parnasse would let me say it," he argues.

"Do I look like Montparnasse?" Marius asks Gavroche, not amused by his attempts to answer back at him.

"No, you're a lot less muscular," Gavroche retorts, and the rest of the table erupts in laughter, much to Marius' dismay. Enjolras tries his best to suppress the grin threatening to appear across his face. The boy is surely Eponine's kin.

He retreats back to his own thoughts, before he hears his name once more. "Auguste," Bahorel repeats, waving his hand around.

"What?" Enjolras snaps.

"Good lord, Enjolras, what's going on with you today?" Joly asks, noticing the uncharacteristic delayed reactions of their leader. "Are you sick? Is it a migraine? Your brain appears to be crippled or something, maybe we should get you-,"

"I'm fine," he insists, his voice conquering Joly's worry.

"He's more than fine," Marius grins, chuckling. "He's like a man in love." The rest of the group encourages the notion in teasing whoops and whistles.

"This is ridiculous," Enjolras grumbles, his face reddening in both anger over the accusations and an underlying embarrassment over the situation. "Excuse me for my mind being exhausted by the important things I choose to surround myself with—love not being one of them."

"You're being ridiculous," Grantaire counters. "You're human like the rest of us, Hercules." The rest of the table nods and murmurs in agreement.

"I'm human, but not foolish," Enjolras mutters into his dinner.

"You're the biggest fool of them all," Grantaire exclaims merrily, earning cheers from the dining table.

He glares at them.

Each one of them is more likely to love her, but he is not a victim of foolishness.

He doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, yes, I know, no interaction. Don't give up on me! Thank you so much for the reviews and follows and favorites and everything, they actually mean the world. Also, I wrote this after working for 10 hours today and this is actually the second complete rewrite of this chapter, so imagine how shitty the first draft was. –shudders-**

**Predictions? Thoughts? Go crazy. Fun fact: I definitely update faster with more feedback. (;**

**Oh, AND before I forget—THERE'S MORE! Thanks for reaching 110 reviews since my last update, guys. The deleted scenes are now available on my tumblr, enjolrastic! There are only two so far but that's because I wanted to pace myself. There will be more. If they're not at the top of my blog by the time you read this, just go to the "written" page of my blog, and click on the link in the description of I Do Not Love You.**

**Contrary to the title of this fic, I love you. All of you.**

**Rina**


	12. Chapter 12

He doesn't love her.

But he will admit the benefits of knowing her, constructed from the pros and cons list that he routinely draws in the recesses of his mind.

He confesses privately-she is, perhaps, an asset. He almost feels the bile rise in his throat at the mere thought he has succumbed to Marius Pontmercy's wisdom, but he admits-their campaign isn't, perhaps, as great as it should be at the moment and at times, Auguste Enjolras appears to show flashes of perfectionism.

He blames that for his approach at the girl who sits on the corner table of the reading room, surrounded by thick textbooks that that he knows are not from his own class. He frowns, realizing he does not even know what she studies.

He had been hidden behind the stacks, on a mission to attain the coveted publication he needs for a source to his research. It is not his fault that when he does draw the work out of the shelf, his vision falls to her across the room-and it is strange, because he knows there is no possible way for her to acknowledge his presence, and this is just about the first time they have coexisted so long without a dangerous voltage in the air.

He learns, from his concealed space, that she is a pen chewer; he notices she is the only one in the reading room with a team-issued Camelbak bottle half-filled with water instead of the standard cream paper cup of coffee; he sees her biting on the end of the excessively long sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt while she writes on her spiral notebook.

He repeats to himself his objective of getting to know her, but surely if he were to report these facts back to Marius in an attempt to prove him wrong, he would only sound like a man with a need for a restraining order.

With the clear of a throat coming from behind him, EnjolrS almost jumps as his forehead collides with the metal bookcase in his attempt to turn around rapidly. In seconds, he sends up prayers that it is not Combeferre, or Marius, or Grantaire, or-well, he really doesn't know who he would like for the witness to be, but he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Jean Prouvaire, a pile of books cradled in his slender arms with his sweater sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

"You've been standing there for a while," he observes, the smallest amused smile on his lips.  
A slight tint of link creeps onto the surface of his cheeks, and Enjolras straightens himself and clears his own throat, before looking down at the attained journal in his hand, and holds it up. "I found what I was looking for," he tells him, nodding at the book.

"You did, didn't you?" Prouvaire's smile breaks into a wider grin, peering over his shoulder into the gap in the bookshelf where Eponine is visible from across the room, and Enjolras rolls his eyes at Prouvaire's subtle jab. "I'm not here to tell you to bed her, or even ask her on a date. But you want to talk to her, if I'm not mistaken."

"I would just like her opinions on certain things," Enjolras clarifies.

"Then ask her," Prouvaire suggests gently. To him, never has there been a simpler course of action to take. Enjolras, too, cannot deny the direct approach that he at least ought to be taking. With his sage words spoken, he turns around and continues his walk further into the depths of the shelves. Enjolras sighs, and he starts a slow but unfaltering series of steps in her direction.

He reaches her desk and clears his throat, and she takes her slow time looking up. "Ms, Thenardier," he greets her.

She pulls out her earphones, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, Mr. Enjolras?" she counters his pretentious address.

"I have a proposition," he begins. His approach probably does not meet Prouvaire's expectations, but Enjolras had well-reached his spontaneity limit when he decided to even make his presence known to her.

* * *

She does not know why she agrees to it, but she decides to say yes and now they sit underneath the fluorescent light of the kitchen early in the Thursday evening, white sheets of paper spread out across the granite countertop.

The deal is simple-she agrees to answer any questions he asks about the inner city school districts, while he prepares her for the upcoming midterm.

She struggles with remembering exact premises. "Stop making things up, Eponine," he scolds her when she tries her hand at fabricating her own dream argument.

"I know what Descartes means!" she groans in defense. "I just can't get the exact wording down, it should at least count."

"Look," he sighs. "The premises are not hard to memorize because they make sense. You follow logic; point A to point B, it works its own way there."

She rolls her eyes-of course he would oversimplify something to make it look like child's math.

An hour into the night, they switch to her end of the deal; he begins talking about the reallocation of funds into grants for more technology-updated classrooms. "And where do you plan on getting this money?" she asks him, skepticism heavy in her voice.

He replies, "I'm sure we can take cuts from other sources," he replies. "The fuel of the mind cannot be wasted at an early age, so other activities-like extracurriculars, or athletics-can take a backseat."

"Athletics can take a backseat?" she repeats. "That's bullshit, Enjolras." Of course, it is only his luck that he forgets about her own activities-he admits, it is an unintelligent move on his part. One of the most useful tools in rhetoric, he knows, is catering to the audience. "You can't just 'take cuts' on sports. The only reason some kids even go to school is because they want to be on College Gameday on ESPN, or so their coach won't find them truant and run them into the ground. Sports are important."

"I'm not saying they're not," Enjolras argues. "But something has to take a cut in order for the education to be powered."

"Then find it somewhere else, you idiot!" she growls. "Don't cut from the school to give to the school, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Some people's lives are riding on new gym equipment or a resurfaced track or a properly maintained turf."

"Some things have to make a sacrifice," he replies, and she rolls her eyes. "It's for the greater good."  
She rolls her eyes. "These are lives we're talking about here, Apollinaire," the name dances on her tongue in the most mocking fashion. "You can't martyr people as you see fit, this isn't some utilitarian logic shit."

He pauses to glare at her, before lowering his head back to focus on the screen of his laptop. "Fine," he replies. "I'll look through the city's budget to see where else we can propose a cut."  
She does not even attempt to hide the satisfied grin that appears on her face, but her content silence is quickly interrupted by a noise emitted from her abdomen.

She prays he does not hear the low, grumbling sound, her groceries spread thinly across the couple of weeks. Of all the things she needs, food sits low on the rank thanks to years of knowing the empty feeling in her stomach all too well. She had not, however, warmed up to the embarrassment that the noticeable sensation brought.

If he noticed, his body language does not give it away, as he continues to scroll through his notes and scribble furiously into his legal pad.

She remained silent about it, and expected him to continue his tirade.

He does not-instead, he clears his throat and states flatly, "I'm hungry."

She looks up and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"I'm hungry," he repeats, his face devoid of any emotion. It occurs to her-this is Enjolras' attempt at subtlety, his try at being nice. She doesn't know whether to laugh or gush at the gesture, so she does neither as he continues talking while typing into his phone. "I'll order some Chinese food, what would you like?" His face still possesses its usual stoicism, as if the action is completely routine.

"I... uh, don't have cash on me," Eponine stutters. The half of the electric bill she owed sucked the money in her bank account dry earlier in the week, much to her chagrin. Surely, she was responsible for less than half-Cosette's fancy appliances probably consumed most of the energy-but asking for a reduction would have Eponine feeling poorer than usual.

"You can pay me back later," he shrugs, waving it off.

She frowns. The feeling of owing money is surely on the bottom of her preferences. "I'm sure Grantaire's left some food around," she replies, hoping he somehow picks up the hint.

"But I want-," he starts to say.

"Enjolras," she interrupts him, dead panning. "I don't want you to buy me food."

"Oh," he replies, finally understanding. For the two of them, there exists some sort of language barrier, delaying their comprehension with each other. She is not Combeferre, who can sit in silence and merely look at Enjolras to know what he plans on doing for the next three hours. And he is not Marius, who immediately picks up on her smallest concerns and insecurities. No-they've yet to learn each other, but they are surely on their way.

She gets up and looks through the refrigerator, retrieving a Tupperware container of Grantaire's Alfredo sauce. "Is this okay?" she asks, holding up the sauce.

He nods, walking to the pantry to retrieve a box of pasta. He walks back to the counter and in a quick turn-around, the two collide with the open container of sauce in between them. The creamy mixture spills onto both of their clothes, Enjolras' t-shirt and jeans taking the most damage.

Her eyes widen in front of him, her feet frozen in place. "Sorry!" she gasps, though the front of her sweatshirt too is affected.

He looks down on his shirt, letting out a frustrated sigh. "It's fine," he says stiffly, emotion absent from his voice. She hates that-she does not know if he is fuming, or if he truly believes it not to be a big deal.

She puts the half-empty container down, unzipping the large sweatshirt to reduce her to a skin-tight workout tank top, a sliver of skin bare before her running leggings begin.

He feels his face redden at the act as he turns around, walking briskly in the direction in his room. "There should be chicken Parmesan in the fridge, just heat that up," he orders, retreating to his room.

He shuts the door and releases another sigh, peeling the sticky fabric off of his torso and undoing the button of his jeans as he scans the room for clothes.

He opens the dresser drawer and takes a moment to be alone with his thoughts, staring at the mirror in front of him. He is appalled at what he is reduced to, like Bahorel and Courfeyrac, his mind derailed from thought over a moment of lust. He wills to free himself of the momentary lack of control of his mind, and breathes deeply, his hands planted on the dresser as he supports himself and directs his thoughts back to his case, to philosophy, to anything that would get his urges out of his mind. He doesn't even _like_ her, he assures himself. He questions the mere existence of their friendship. It takes him a few minutes, but he finally considers himself able to return.

That is, until he hears a heavy pounding on the door. "Enjolras!" her panicked voice travels through the door, and he rapidly pulls on a pair of athletic shorts before opening the door.

"What?" he asks, the alarm evident in his tone.

Eponine's eyes widen at the sight of his bare torso, losing her thoughts quickly before shaking her own head quickly to snap herself out of the half-trance. "Smoking," she only manages to breathe out a word of the sentence she intended.

"Excuse me?" Enjolras replies, raising an eyebrow.

She blushes, before attempting to repeat herself. "The stove. It's smoking," she clarifies, and he rushes to cross the threshold before she exclaims, "Wait!" he stops mid-movement, and looks at her. "You need a shirt." He shoots her a quizzical look, before looking down at his torso. "For safety hazards," she explains herself lamely.

He does not waste time thinking of something to reply, merely yanking out a shirt from his dresser drawer and pulling it on in haste on his way to the kitchen. He sees the large cloud of smoke, both surprised and relieved that the alarm has not set off yet.

He turns off the stove and orders Eponine to open the windows, and she obeys with impressive quickness as the smoke slowly dissipates as he turns on the fume hood. He examines the scene, noticing that she'd turned on the wrong unit and grumbles at the mistake. "You turned on the wrong one," he states, matter-of-factly.

"There were a lot of buttons," she defends herself, gesturing at the expensive-looking chrome stove. "I'm not familiar with state-of-the-art."

"It operates like every other stove," Enjolras replies, the irritation now clear in his voice.

"We could barely pay for our gas bills, Apollinaire," she snaps at him, and his eyes widen before his face softens considerably. "Oh god, don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he asks, confused. She groans at his emotional incompetence.

"Don't pity me like I'm some sort of sad puppy in a PETA commercial, you asshole," she replies, infuriated. "I almost burnt your apartment down, I'm sorry. Just order a goddamn pizza, fine."

"I'm not taking pity on you," he denies, and runs a hand through his hair in frustration as he takes his phone out. "Is cheese okay?"

She nods, flashing a small smile at the gesture of kindness. She ignores the fact that if she'd succumbed to his offer at buying the first time, there would not be a pan of burnt food sitting on the sink for Grantaire upon his arrival back home.

They decide that neither of them belongs in the kitchen.

The wait is half an hour, and Eponine overlooks the hunger in her stomach to continue working through her self-made study guide, when he interrupts her. "What do you study?" he blurts out, and she looks at him in a look of confusion. "I never asked you," he adds, as if the explanation makes the confession less awkward.

"Psychology and elementary education," Eponine replies, a hint of hesitation in her response.

"Teaching?" he asks, and she is sure it's the first time she hears interest in his questioning.

"Maybe," she shrugs. "Social worker. Maybe save a life one at a time."

"That's admirable," he replies, and it takes her a moment to recover from the genuine compliment.

"It makes sense," she replies cleverly, and he lets out a short laugh—to which she responds to with her own, and the atmosphere of the room transforms rapidly as the charge in the air neutralizes and perhaps, even becomes positive.

* * *

Combeferre turns the key to the doorknob an hour later to find the two discussing education passionately, yet civilly, though sometimes Eponine attempts to speak through a mouth full of pizza and sarcasm, while Enjolras starts getting carried away with his pretentious rhetoric. However, the two seem to keep each other in check, as the conversation moves on with more fluidity than they'd ever experienced.

They hardly acknowledge him, a curt nod from Enjolras and a warm hello from Eponine's direction, so he sits down on the couch and pulls out a book to read. He watches the pizza wind down to the last slice, like a lit fuse finally meeting the bomb, and expects a world war to ensue before his very eyes.

But it does not. "You mind if I take this last slice?" Eponine asks, and Enjolras does not even bat an eyelash as he shakes his head in nonchalance. He does not even tell her that she needs it more than he does, managing not to anger Eponine with his unintentional condescension.

Combeferre smiles to himself. They're _learning_.

Maybe he can learn to love her, his flatmate hopes in silence from his place in the spectator stands.

But he knows, still, the answer he will get from the man who still does not understand love.

He doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: I know—two updates in one week, I can't get over it either. And E/E interaction. What is this world coming to, guys? Well, I'll tell you what.**

**So my personal laptop is broken since my left click doesn't work—therefore, I can't do the usual tumblr collage for last chapter. Or this chapter. So I decided to make up for it by updating more frequently.**

**Also, huge thanks to jolsette on tumblr for her fic graphic contribution, because it is beautiful and you should see it and like it or reblog it in appreciation! You'll find it on the enjonine tag.**

**But how did you like this chapter? I haven't done their interaction in a while, and I feared of being slightly rusty, so hopefully this will provide even the slightest bit of feels. Let me know! In the impending storm of Victoire, the decay of Montparnasse, and the mischief of the Amis, we still have these two. Tell me your thoughts!**

**And thank you thank you thank you for all the support both here and on my tumblr, enjolrastic.**

**Love always, Rina.**


	13. Chapter 13

She doesn't love him.

She never learned how; how does one love? How is it supposed to feel?

When she was younger, she missed out on the friendship circles, the merry giggles spread around the girls' side of the lunchroom about future husbands and maids of honor, of wedding color themes-but she surely overheard them. That was love, she supposed, and that was unattainable and completely useless, she told her best friend back when he still attended school. After a few years, she would still talk to his empty seat, occasional mutters under her breath, and it comforted her more than the prospect of making new friends.

"So you love that guy, then?" Montparnasse asks, a proud skeptic of both the concept and the person she speaks so highly of. They had come a long way from the lunchroom, yet still she talks to him with the same, unadulterated honesty.

"What? No," she is quick to defend herself, swatting the notion away like a pesky insect. "He's a total asshole."

"I thought you said Marius was the nicest guy you'd ever met," He points out the apparent contradiction.

"Oh," she replies dumbly. "Him." She takes a pause of contemplation. When she'd first met Marius Pontmercy, she had been certain she'd encountered a saint-some sort of savior, a fountain of kindness and genuine concern, a rare gem in the coal pile of human beings crammed within the limits of the city.

And she still does think the world of him, she realizes. He ties with Cosette in the quality of his character, and it is the oddest sight for two incredibly alike souls to find constant affection in each encounter.

She loves Marius-how could she not? If anyone deserves to be loved and adored because of simply existing, it is Marius Pontmercy and his essence, and his warmth. She is the frequent third party in their movie nights, their dinners and their pointless conversations, but she has grown in her role from the first day.

She feared Cosette would take him away-change him and keep him to herself; she acknowledges that he, of course, had never been hers in the first place. But it was the opposite; instead, Marius' light shone brighter, and his inner flame burnt warmer. Cosette had made him happier, and without Eponine's permission, his happiness, too, elevated her.

So does she love Marius? Yes.

But she, too, loves Grantaire and his blunt wisdom and his constant humor; she is stronger because of their friendship, because he too fights battles and suddenly, she feels her sword is lighter when she fights alongside him.

And she loves Courfeyrac, because he loves everyone-and how rare it is to find a person always so attracted to the company of others, to be constantly present. She loves Courfeyrac because all lonely souls ought to love Courfeyrac; he is a gift.

They are all precious stones, she admits. Combeferre, she sees as a sapphire and Grantaire surely obsidian formed through a constant battle of fire and water.

And Enjolras? Surely a diamond, though she knows how quickly he'd refute the claim-but it fits him too well. He is coveted-so worthy of appreciation that one might even forget their own value in place of their adoration.

She returns to the question at hand, and purses her lips before she looks at Montparnasse. "In a way, very much so," she replies. "Not like you or Gavroche or Grantaire or..." she trails off.

"Or?" Montparnasse raises an eyebrow. "There's someone else." The words that would normally belong to a jealous boyfriend instead come from an intrigued, curious friend. Who is Eponine anymore, to fall prey to nice personalities? They are either signs of luxury or stupidity, sometimes both.

"No," she denies.

"How the mighty have fallen," he laughs mockingly.

"Oh please," Eponine scoffs. "Remember when you used to read me poetry in the ninth grade?"

The amusement leaves Montparnasse's face. "We're not bringing that up," he replies, his anger swirled into rare embarrassment.

"You thought you were the classiest little shit," she laughs. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

"Thou art more lovely and more temperate," he replies without missing a beat, the verses locked away in the back of his mind. He had given up many things when he left school-even the few things that brought joy to his tumultuous childhood, things he was naturally good at. Montparnasse would never tell a living soul, but Eponine knew the talents he hid with the utmost secrecy. He was a brilliant man-is a brilliant man, underneath the addiction to violence. Perhaps what makes his vices so strong is his ability to capture them-exploit them, until he no longer falls prey to his habits but burns their flames out in untamable explosions. "Probably the biggest lie I've ever told."

Eponine feigns offense. "Asshole," she mutters, before changing her tone considerably. "It's Gav's birthday tomorrow."

"I know," he replies weakly. "Buy him a bag of Kit Kats for me... and a pack of baseball cards."

"I don't have any-,"

"Just do it, damn it," he interrupts, and looks straight into her eyes in anger. "Can you just do one damn thing for me, Ep?"

She does not fear him-she never has, and she certainly would not begin to while he is confined to the hospital bed. But she will not begin to pity him either, because she knows it is the last thing he wants if he believes in recovering. "Get better and fucking take it to him yourself," she retaliates. It is not a strike down, but a challenge. She leaves the room, the spike of her temper exponentially decaying as she crosses the threshold into the hallway.

She breathes-she should apologize, but she does not. She hikes her backpack onto her shoulder and walks out with her pride.

It's definitely not their first battle, anyway.

* * *

"Gav, quit peeking or I'm going to eat all of your candy," Courfeyrac scolds the boy thrown over his shoulders, a yellow bandana used as a makeshift blindfold to cover the little brown eyes.

"I already know where we're going, dummy," Gavroche complains, pounding on Courfeyrac's back with his small fists. "I can tell from the creaking that we're at 'Ponine's."

"Boy's too smart for his own good," Marius notes, amused for once because he is free from Gavroche's smart comments.

"We should just dump him in the river," Courfeyrac pretends to suggest to Marius in the most serious tone.

"We'll tell Eponine he ran away," Marius adds, his serious tone accompanied by a mischievous exchange of glances with his roommate.

"You jerks! I'm gonna-," he begins a threat, but the swing of the door and the loud exclamation of "SURPRISE!" from many voices interrupts him.

Courfeyrac puts Gavroche down on the floor, untying his blindfold and revealing Eponine's apartment, only with much more company than the usual crowd. He smiles at the sight of the young men who have, over a short time, become his brothers in camaraderie.

Marius holds up his phone camera, recording the event like a proud father as Cosette brings out her chocolate cake, Grantaire conveniently fishing out a lighter from his pocket to ignite the candles.

Even with the dysfunction of it all-Bahorel's baritone thundering over everyone as the song begins, Joly worrying about the melting wax spilling onto the cake, and Courfeyrac trying to hold Gavroche back from lunging into the cake until the end of the song-Eponine smiles at the normalcy. This, she realizes, is a first for Gavroche, yet this is what he is supposed to have had all along.

As her brother does not hesitate to eliminate the light from all the candles, a frown forms on Eponine's lips while she scans the crowd.

"He'll be here," a voice to her left tells her. She looks up to find Jean Prouvaire, who she has hardly exchanged words with. Before she can request clarification, he adds, "Enjolras doesn't forget people's birthdays."

She is about to deny his harmless accusations, but Jean's knowing smile forces her into a simple reply. "Oh," she settles for.

As the cake vanishes before their eyes, to Cosette's joy and Eponine's lack of shock, Courfeyrac announces the long-anticipated time to open presents, and the sugar in Gavroche's system causes him to bounce excitedly in his chair.

Joly is first: he proudly brings out a neatly wrapped box, and much to Gavroche's amazement, the child becomes the proud owner of his first microscope.

Bahorel is next, and Eponine can only groan when Gavroche fires his first few shots from the Nerf gun.

Combeferre and Prouvaire combine to bring him a pile of comic books, deciding upon a few characters who both save the damsel in distress, per Jean's request, and uphold good morals, to Combeferre's preference.

Grantaire emerges with a scooter, and Eponine does not know where he had hidden it the entire time, but the surprise only makes Gavroche hug the man tighter when he sees the shiny, silver object wrapped in what Eponine thinks can only be a makeshift bow.

Both Marius and Courfeyrac emerge with a pile of new video games, having waited to purchase them solely for the boy's birthday present. She narrows her eyes at Courfeyrac. "I have a feeling this gift is as much his as it is yours," she observes, and he laughs in response.

"Of course," he grins.

"If his grades start slipping-,"

"Relax, 'Ponine," Courfeyrac interrupts her, placing both hands on her shoulders reassuringly. "As long as Captain Pontmercy keeps playing father, you don't have to worry." She looks across the room at Marius, who still holds his phone up to document the home video.

When they finish, she pulls Gavroche to the side and takes out the small paper bag, and he receives it without question. He pulls out the baseball cards and grins, before looking up at Eponine. "Where's 'Parnasse?" he asks.

She expected him to ask, but failed to decide upon an answer. Would the boy be concerned? Around him, a new circle of people exist: less volatile, more nurturing, certainly better role models. Montparnasse had done what he could thus far, but she struggles to find a place for him in his new life. "He couldn't make it," she replies simply, and Gavroche nods in understanding. He is accustomed to Montparnasse constantly taking flight, like a fleeting raven that soars above him and only lands every so often.

A loud knock is heard through the apartment, and Grantaire answers the door. "Look who decided to join us!" he exclaims, and Eponine looks up to see Enjolras, his business wear evidence of his most recent activity.

He steps through the threshold, greeted by his friends. "Anyone ever told you about punctuality?" Courfeyrac jokes from across the room.

Jean exchanges a look with Eponine, his eyes shining brightly with the most pleasant "I told you so."

Joly announces the lateness of his departure, explaining that he still must stop by Musichetta's place before he retreats back to the apartment he shares with Bahorel. He drags the bigger man along, despite his friend's complaints. "Unless you want to walk," Joly shrugs. "That's what you get for getting your license suspended." He grins as his roommate groans, unwillingly crossing the threshold after bidding his goodbye.

Jean offers to help Cosette, and Marius follows suit—only his idea of assistance is licking the bowl of cake batter.

As Courfeyrac retreats to the couch, Enjolras approaches Gavroche with a large black paper bag stuffed with tissue paper. "Happy birthday," he says, his face in a softer expression than she normally observes.

Gavroche reaches into the bag, curious, before fishing out his birthday present. A red Spiderman backpack emerges, a vast improvement from the beat-up, torn one that Gavroche used to own. He notices the added weight and opens the zipper to the main pocket, complete with notebooks and pencils and crayon packs all under the superhero's franchise. Gavroche looks up at the man in appreciative excitement, and Enjolras cracks a smile. "How'd you know?" he asks Enjolras, with a wonder comparable to attributing him to snow on a Christmas morning.

"He's my favorite too," Enjolras admits.

"Thanks, chief," Gavroche replies, punching his side playfully.

Eponine smiles at the exchange, and looks at Jean Prouvaire. _Enjolras doesn't forget people's birthdays_, she remembers his soft voice saying only a few minutes ago.

He remembers Gavroche's birthday. He remembers the boy without a backpack, a pencil and eraser stuffed in the pocket of his jeans when he came to pick him up. He remembers Eponine's own words: _"Maybe save a life one at a time."_

Perhaps she is right in that manner, he supposes, toying with the idea. He admires the simple genius behind her stances.

Perhaps, he might say, he has come to admire her in the most unconventional way he can fathom.

But he doesn't love her.

* * *

**A/N: Oh buddy. Well this is just characterization and kind of fluff so I really don't know how good it is as a chapter of itself and I was actually going to make this longer but I don't know how good I am yet with a certain subject at this specific time, so I decided to hold off on it.**

**Sorry for the wait, guys! But I did get two one-shots up, Turn to Stone and No Longer Your Muse. Read it if you'd like, and please please please let me know what you think! Onward we go.  
**

**Also, I'd like to reiterate something I posted on Tumblr (enjolrastic). Please, guys-just remember to be nice to each other. The world needs a lot more of that, of love and of kind words; with everything that's happened this week, I can't stress it more.**

**Much love, Rina**


	14. Chapter 14

He doesn't love her.

He doesn't have to love her to notice her absence, he claims, as he finds his eyes landing on the empty seat among the sea of faces.

Perhaps, he admits, he is thinking too much of it. Many students have missed his discussion section, and he only crosses off their names with a fleeting moment of disapproval. He does the same with her, but he cannot bring himself to believe that she, of all people, would be truant with dishonorable intentions.

Claire, of the first row, is the one to point out the change in his air. "Enjolras?" she asks, bringing him out of his daze.

"Hm?"

"Are you going to start class?" the curious underclassman asks him, and he nods his head in an attempt to shake off the plaguing worries that begin to fester in the folds of his mind. He wills himself not to believe in his most irrational convictions—that she is, for some unknown reason, unconscious in an alley left alone to a tragic end.

No. He is rational, he tells himself. He has lived years of mundane monotony, in which the most dramatic experiences include dragging Bahorel to the hospital in fear of alcohol poisoning.

He realizes, though, that she is not of his world—a world of safety nets, of comfort, of people paid to constantly make sure her mistakes go unpunished. The realization is enough to water the seed of worry and by the time the final minute has ticked away through his lecture, the roots of worst case scenarios wrap around his fingertips, enough for him to noticeably turn the door knob with much more force and urgency than needed.

His feet fall into a brisk walk, and he glides down the stairs before being forced to an abrupt halt as a body interferes with his last step onto the entrance pavement. "What's the rush, Auguste?" the auburn-haired girl asks playfully, a devious smile creeping onto her pale lips.

"Yvette," he greets her unenthusiastically. "I'd love to talk, but-,"

"But what?" she asks, feigning innocence to a mockery. "Your cute little councils have a super important topic today?"

He clenches his jaw before his own mouth contorts to the most civil venomous smile he can create. "I'm on my way to see a friend."

"The charity case?" she sneers. "Do me a favor and tell her she owes money for my brother's suit. Or since she's gold-digging, I suppose I can just ask you."

He feels the sudden warmth in his cheeks, and the challenge dancing on her sculpted eyebrows tells him of her amusement over his anger. He only needs one word. "Don't."

She rolls her eyes and laughs humorlessly, before walking to his side and leaning into him. She radiates with a comfortable arrogance, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be stupid, Auguste," she tells him condescendingly. "The whole empathy for the poor thing is really adorable, but you're foolish if you get emotionally invested in her."

She leaves him angered, and he stands with the deafening noise of his thoughts. He agrees with her: becoming emotionally invested in a sole person is far from his wisest choice. It infuriates him that she accuses him of being on such a path, yet he realizes that her greatest victory is that it makes him feel anything at all. He cannot counter her convictions of his attachment as he hears the pulse beating through his ears. He comes to the realization that he feels something.

It does him no good as he continues on his walk, shoulders tense and hands shoved in his pockets. The path is too familiar for his liking, and he ascends the stairwell to her building with the uneasy feeling in his stomach almost forcing him to turn around and mind his own business. His stubbornness, however, triumphs as his knuckles meet the wood of the off-white door to Cosette's apartment.

Only her roommate would open the door so gently. "Enjolras?" she asks, her curious eyes travelling up and down as if she were examining the magical nature of his presence.

"Good evening, Cosette," he greets her politely, as one does automatically around Cosette. "Is Eponine around?"

She looks over her shoulder, long enough for him to know that she's exchanging a questioning look with the woman in question behind the door. "Umm," she begins, hesitant to lie to the clearly knowing visitor.

"You skipped class, Eponine," he calls over Cosette.

She replies with an eloquent "Screw you, Enjolras," and he immediately picks up on the unmistakable raspy quality of her tone. His initial suspicions are soon confirmed by the cough she tries to fight, as Cosette opens the door fully in a state of surrender.

"Sorry Ep, I tried," she says sincerely, before retreating to the sounds of loud folk music from her bedroom.

He steps in and it almost takes him a moment to find Eponine, wrapped around the cocoon of a fleece blanket on the couch. When he finally manages to meet her familiar, yet strangely fatigued eyes, she sits up in an attempt to downplay her obvious state of sickness. "Do you make house visits to all your truants?" she all but growls at him.

"Only the ones who need it," he replies stiffly.

She raises an eyebrow. "What's with your pissy mood?" He did not know it was possible to achieve a feat like combining curiosity and disinterest, but Eponine does so. She cares, he deduces, but perhaps only for selfish reasons of mocking him for his troubles.

He does not answer, only to prove the point of his distance not only to her, but more importantly, to himself.

Cosette flounces out from the hallway in yet another light, lace dress and twirls. "What do you think?" her eyes dart from her roommate to the guest, placing more of her expectancy on the male opinion.

"Do you own every color in lace?" Eponine comments first, hardly any awe reflecting on her monotone.

Her roommate rolls her eyes at the discrete jab, then looks once more at Enjolras, crossing her arms and waiting for an answer. His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "You look…" he begins. "Good."

"Good?" Cosette repeats, intensifying her stare at the tense Enjolras. He, however, averts his gaze, ceasing to acknowledge the pressure.

"Wonderful," he replies stoically, and a satisfied smirk appears on the girl's face as she picks up her violin case beside the couch before marching out of the door. He looks back at Eponine questioningly.

"Performance," Eponine shrugs, returning to burrow herself under the blanket to defend her body from the overwhelming chills.

"Do you need anything?" Enjolras asks nonchalantly, at a subtlety almost inaudible to the bundled up Eponine.

She looks at him in confusion, only to meet the same unfazed line of his mouth and unattached nature of his eyes. "Huh?"

"Cough syrup? Soup?" he begins to form a list of suggested home remedies from the back of his mind. He, as healthy as a prize horse, only can think of the two before he looks at her expectantly. She blinks at him. "Today would be nice," he remarks.

His sarcasm flips the switch in her mind. "Oranges," she finally replies, and he responds with the arch of his brow. "My mom would buy fruits when I was sick so I wouldn't have to go to the doctor. I liked oranges."

He crosses his arms, placing a thumb beneath his lips. "I don't think those are the best for a sore throat," he remarks, with as much confidence as he can place on his knowledge of the human body and immunology.

She shrugs. "You asked me what I wanted."

"I asked you what you _needed_," he corrects her, only to meet her familiar rolling eyes. Her lips part to counter his argument, but he stands up before she can utter a word. Soon, she hears the familiar creak of the pantry cabinet doors, and no longer intends on furthering conversation as she tilts her head in a state of curiosity. He shuffles around boxes before retrieving a packet of something only Cosette would think of owning. "Orange tea," he says flatly, digging into another cabinet of pots and pans to fish out a chrome kettle.

He waits for the water to boil, and only then does she find it fitting to end the silence. "Why?" she asks him.

"You're sick," he replies, picking up a copy of the university newspaper publication.

"No shit," she scoffs. "I mean why are you bothering?"

"You're my friend," he shrugs, and her lips almost part in surprise at the simple statement. When she does not respond, he looks up. "What?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing," she waves off.

He knows it—he knows the words that she does not bother to say; he knows she doubts his ability to form personal connections, like so many have before her. He knows she suspects some ulterior motive behind their acquaintance, and perhaps he convinces himself that a motive does exist.

His plans, though, surely did not include pouring the boiling water into a large mug and steeping the tea, bringing it to the coffee table and placing it in front of her. He doubts they included sitting on the arm chair and watching her lower her head into the mug, her slender body curling inwardly with the blanket sliding off of her bare shoulders.

She chuckles to herself, and only then does he realize he'd been staring at her collarbones for an excessive amount of time as he darts his eyes back to her face. "Is this a trap?" she jokes. "Are you going to read Swinburne to me?"

He almost laughs, but instead he shrugs once more. "I suppose I can."

She thinks for a moment, and nods. "Okay."

He looks at her in disbelief, and she returns with her own glance of expectance, her gaze unceasing as she takes another long sip. He takes out a leather bound book from his messenger bag, flipping the page to an annotated passage and clearing his throat.

As her eyelids get heavy, she decides she likes the timbre of his reading voice—perhaps less vigorous than his speaking voice, but with the same confidence dancing through every syllable.

He decides he likes the smell of oranges, and he's not completely insulted when he realizes much of the cup is left unfinished as he turns the page and looks at his slumbering audience. He shuts his book softly, picking up the mug from the coffee table as he hears Eponine shift and readjust on the couch. Still, she does not wake, and he figures he'll drill the Problem of Evil into her mind tomorrow, perhaps. Yes, he wouldn't mind seeing her tomorrow.

He used to hate the smell of oranges, but he doesn't mind it.

He doesn't mind her.

But he doesn't love her.

* * *

**Ahh there are so many things wrong with this-it's totally filler, and it's so long overdue. I am SO sorry. I stayed in tonight though to study some chemistry, but I ended up working on this and hopefully I'll get another one up soon! I barely remember all my six classes, so I definitely don't have my shit together right now but I'm getting it figured out!**

**I'd love to know how y'all have been doing and what you think of the story (feel free to yell at me for how long you've been waiting) so please review!**

**And talk to me on enjolrastic tumblr! Cool? Cool!**

**Much love, Rina.**


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